Save Me If You Can
by Lacadiva
Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable.
1. Chapter 1

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13 for violence. I may upgrade to R later, again, for violence. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin and the White Collar guys. He is da man, and I wish he'd give me a job writing for WC.

_Summary: Neal's four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And he disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

_Note: Thanks to all who read "Find Me If You Can." I know I need to finish it, and I will! I promise. But this story idea came up and I couldn't resist. _

Café Insomnia was never the kind of place you came to for the coffee. It had deep dark corners where people could handle their shady business or forbidden liaisons with severe discretion and privacy. Waitresses in worn yet trendy black clothes, with hair that was rainbow bright on one side and shaved on the other were more often tipped well not for their good service or their smiles, but for keeping their mouths shut. Book shelves covered two of four walls, all dusty, musty and ancient tomes that hadn't been touched or read in years and weighed down the rotting wood. The few old, soft cushioned couches made it difficult for anyone to rise without some embarrassment. And the smell of stale, old coffee was thick in the air and deep in the faded walls, in the tattered curtains, and in the brittle, yellowing lampshades that covered dusty low watt bulbs which gave a sick, jaundiced tint to everything.

This is where Peter was told to come.

This is not the kind of place he would ever expect to find Neal. Not the Neal he knew.

He had been sitting at a small table for nearly an hour. He came early, deliberately. He wanted to case the place first, before the meeting took place. His white chipped white cup and mismatched saucer sat untouched, the coffee in it long gone cold and tasteless. Peter kept watching the door, hoping that every time a shadow bounced against the glass mosaic door, it would be Neal. Bells would tinkle, greeting bleary eyed insomniacs who arrived with newspapers, laptops or stacks of old hardback books or the occasional Kindle. But none of them were Neal.

Peter looked at his watch. Was this some kind of con? He would give him five more minutes, he decided, and took a deep, frustrated breath to seal the deal with himself. Five more minutes, and he would be heading out the door and on his way home, back to the warmth of his wife and his bed. And Neal Caffrey would remain at the top of his crap list.

Anger burned in his chest. How could he - after everything Peter and the Bureau had done for the ungrateful, trouble-making con artist – how could he just walk away like that and say nothing? Peter had bent over backwards for him, even bent the law for him. How could Neal just disappear like that? Two months of nothing. Not a word, not a phone call, not even a birthday card (even though Neal always managed to send one to Peter while he was still in prison!). No goodbye, no thank you, not a single word. As soon as his four years was up, his obligation to the Bureau complete, and no sooner than he had ceremonially handed Neal the key to unlock and remove his tracking anklet, Neal took a walk, and never returned. At first Peter was concerned that Neal had been the victim of foul play. But there was no word on the street, no dire warnings from Mozzie, no evidence that Neal had been taken anywhere either injured or under duress. After a month, the Bureau decided to drop the investigation. It was determined that Neal had apparently conned them all, that he was kicking back on some exotic, uncharted island laughing at the hard working good guys and spending some ill-gotten gain from past cons. Peter imagined he would never hear from Neal again unless he somehow showed up on the Bureau's most wanted list again. In which case, he was prepared to arrest him for the third time.

And then, a few hours ago, Neal's phone call, just as he was lazily falling asleep snuggled next to Elizabeth. Two minutes before midnight. The call was short and to the point, no sentiment, no "Hey, buddy, did you miss me? Sorry I disappeared on you." Just "meet me at Café Insomnia in half an hour. Please."

He did say please. At least he said please.

Peter had jumped out of bed and into his street clothes, apologizing to Elizabeth the entire time, promising and assuring her that his midnight rendezvous was innocuous (not regarding an open case) and innocent (not a liaison with some tawdry mistress). He kissed her and swore to be home quickly, and that he would reveal all to her upon his return.

Bells tinkled and Peter looked up from where his forefinger had been absently tracing the sticky mosaic pattern of the table top as he brooded.

It was Neal.

Peter stood, wanting to greet him, shake his hand. Hug him. But he also wanted to deck him, slap some sense into him. And then Neal stepped closer, passing a dim wall sconce that gave Peter some idea why he had not heard from Caffrey until now.

Gaunt. That was the first word that came to mind as Neal got closer. He'd lost weight - as if he could afford to - maybe as much as fifteen pounds. His face looked ghostly pale, though that could have been due to the light. A dark, thin beard shaded his face, making his sunken cheeks seem all the more hollow. His eyes, big as bright blue saucers already, were now huge with so little face left to support it. They were also red and wet with unshed tears. The ex-con's hair, which was usually stylishly cut and held just so by over-priced product, hung limp and oily down his forehead, over his ears, his neck. He wore a brown overcoat (brown!) that appeared to be two sizes too big for him. Under it, a cheap white tee shirt and denims. Denims. His shoes were well made cowboy boots that were worn and scuffed, but still holding up. At least he'd kept one concession to vanity.

"Peter," was all Neal was able to say without choking up.

Peter couldn't take his eyes off of Neal. He meant to say hello, but what came out was, "What happened…?" The agent moved closer, reaching out for Neal's arms. Neal took a step back, flinching, as if he were afraid to be touched. As if the simple touch of a friend could cause great injury.

"Long story," said Neal.

"I've got time."

Peter lowered his extended arms, the desire to pummel the younger man long since dissipated.

Both men sat down. "I didn't think you'd come," Neal said in confessions, his spindly fingers entwining.

"Why wouldn't I?"

Neal held up a hand, and Rainbow Bright the waitress came to the table, hands shoved down in her servers' apron pocket.

"Boss says no more for you, Neal. You have to pay your tab," she said sternly. "Sorry."

Neal looked away, embarrassed. He reached into his coat pockets, searching for whatever he might find to pay her. He pulled out a few coins, some crumpled singles, and an old receipt that Peter imagined may have been in the pocket of the old coat when Neal purchased it from some grungy consignment store.

"Put it on my bill," Peter said.

"No, I got this," said Neal, irritation obvious in his voice. He couldn't look Peter in the eyes.

"Neal…"

"I said I got it!" Neal pushed the few crumpled bills across the table for the waitress.

Peter reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a credit card.

"Just…whatever he wants," Peter told the waitress.

Neal sat staring at his own hands for a moment. Peter could see that there was a tremor. This was not Neal. Not his Neal.

"Coffee." His hurt, tearing eyes sought Peter's. "Thank you," he whispered, and dropped the crumpled cash back into his pocket.

"Neal," Peter said, moving closer, "tell me what happened to you. Why did you disappear? Why do you look…"

"Like I said…long story. One you probably won't believe. I wouldn't believe it either if it hadn't actually happened to me."

They sat in silence until the coffee came. Neal reached for the sticky sugar dispenser on the table. He put four heaping spoonfuls of the white stuff into his coffee, stirred it vigorously and drank most of it down, practically non-stop. This was not Neal.

Peter had seen this before, knew the signs. Drastic weight loss. The vacant stare. Separation, alienation, isolation from friends and loved ones.

"How long?" Peter asked, his voice catching in his throat as the realization ran from his brain, to his heart, and to the pit of his stomach, making it ache in hollow grief.

"How long?" Neal reached for the sugar again. Peter grabbed his wrist and forced Neal's coat sleeve up to the young con's elbow. Neal tried to pull away, but he had no strength.

The first horror Peter noticed were the scars circling Neal's wrists. He'd seen scarring from too-tight handcuffs before, but this was far more severe. They'd been infected, he could tell, and thus, healed poorly. Then, he found the marks…tracks… a succession of scars left from hypodermic needles. One wound seemed somewhat fresh, somewhat recent.

"Is it heroin? Or meth?"

Peter quickly counted each infected injection site…more than a dozen around the bend of his arm and following the path of darkened, collapsed veins that showed through his nearly translucent skin. His grief ran deep. Tears stung the agent's eyes. He let go of Neal's wrist and sat back and steadied his breath.

Neal pulled his sleeve back down and looked away. His shame was deep. He was trembling. Tears ran uncontrollably down his face as if they could be held back no longer. But his face remained angelic and calm.

"Trust me when I say, I didn't do this to myself," Neal whispered. "You know me, Peter. You know that this isn't a choice I would make for myself. There's an explanation."

"There'd better be an explanation, Neal. And a good one."

"Excuse me," Neal said. He rose and headed for the sign marked "restrooms" by the kitchen.

As an FBI agent, Peter had certainly seen this kind of thing before, but not so often in the White Collar Crimes Unit. And certainly not among the people he cared about most.

He wiped his face, feeling an odd numbness that frightened him for just a moment. How could Neal have done such a thing? This was not in his profile. Neal was many things – a conman, a liar, a smooth operator, a peacock…but a junkie? How does a man go from Sy Devore vintage suits and planning cons to cheap Gap knock-offs and shooting up?

Peter's gut was sending him a disturbing signal. Something was wrong. Neal was gone for a few minutes too long. Peter imagined his friend and former C.I. sitting on the tiny, filthy men's room floor, nodding off, mumbling to himself in warm, stoned comfort while a dirty needle dangled from his arm. Or perhaps he had broken the window and run for it, limping down the cold alley in a drugged daze.

Peter rose quickly and headed for the men's room. Before he could reach for the door, it opened to a startled Neal. No needles. Just wide eyed fear and shame on his life-battered face.

"Neal," Peter said, like a father would to a long lost son come home, repentant. Like a friend determined not to let another friend die another day.

Peter couldn't help it. He threw his arm around his old friend. Neal didn't fight, but he didn't return the hug either.

He cried.

Neal shook and cried without shame. Part of it was fear. Part of it was relief. Peter held him, keeping the bone-thin former con from collapsing to the floor.

"Save me…" Neal whispered, his voice pitched higher than normal, so filled with pain. Between the wracking sobs that made his gut clench and his knees weaken, Neal pleaded, "Save me, Peter."

"I will." Peter held him harder, as if the hug, not his words, were his true promise. "I swear I will."

End Chapter One. Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 2

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin. He is da man, and I wish I was good enough to write for White Collar. Now that's a dream job.

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

"Hello, Moz," Elizabeth said with a wan smile as she opened the door. "Thank you for coming."

"Only for you, Mrs. Suit," he said, but without the normal dose of exaggerated irritation. He meant it affectionately, perhaps even a bit playfully, despite the solemn nature of the occasion. "And for Neal, which goes without saying." He kissed her quickly on the cheek as he stepped over the threshold and into the Burke residence.

He wasn't surprised to find Agents Jones and Barrigan there, sitting on the couch. Still, he flinched involuntarily at the thought of being in such close proximity to federal agents. "Suit," he said, nodding at Jones, who nodded back. "Pantsuit," he said at Diana. She subtly rolled her eyes at the reference.

Peter entered the room. He was dressed casually – dark slacks and a cranberry colored polo shirt with long sleeves, pushed up to his elbows. "We'll start as soon as Sara arrives," he said, his voice low and resonant, and devoid of his usual level of energy.

Silence filled the room again, broken only by the sound of the Burke's doorbell ringing. A moment later, Elizabeth ushered Sara into the living room. Another person – quite unexpectedly – accompanied them.

"June…" Peter was pleased and relieved to see her. A vintage fur, well-kept over the years, hung stylishly yet conservatively around June's shoulders. Peter hadn't called her, and mentally kicked himself for the oversight. Thank goodness Sara had brought her along. June was as close to Neal as any of them, and deserved to know what was going on. As she embraced Peter, Jones rose to offer her his seat. Once everyone had all settled in, Peter moved to stand near the television to begin.

"Thank you all for coming," he said. "I know you have all, at some point, been worried about Neal."

"You found him?" Sara said quickly, breathlessly. "Please tell us you found him. Is he alive?"

"Yes, he's alive."

There was a collective release of pent up anxiety, and Peter noticed how everyone in the room - except Elizabeth, who already knew the story - seemed to relax just a bit. June caught Sara's hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

"I've asked you all here because Neal desperately needs us. I saw him last night. It's not good."

"So he's still in New York," said Mozzie, his anger at Neal undisguised. "Why wouldn't he return my calls? He's ignored my every attempt to contact him. I don't understand. It's not like Neal."

"You're right," said Peter. "He's not himself at all."

Silence again fell upon the room.

"He asked for my help. Now I'm asking for your help. It's going to take the concerted effort of everyone in this room to get him through this. Neal is in trouble. Deep trouble. He may not survive it. But we have to do everything we can to save him."

"Whatever it takes," Sara said.

"Count me in," said Diana.

"Me too," came June. "Whatever you need … money is no object."

"Goes without saying," said Mozzie, crossing his arms at his chest.

"What do you want us to do, Peter?" asked Jones.

Tears stung Peter's eyes, and he swallowed back a choking sensation that was threatening to give way to unchecked emotion. He'd been experiencing a lot of that in the last twelve hours. But this time, his burgeoning tears were of something akin to relief. He knew he could count on everyone in the room.

"We're going to have to go off the books for this one. No one else in the bureau can know. Nothing we discuss goes beyond this room. If anyone takes exception to that, then now is the time to leave."

Peter gave them a moment to consider his words. No one stood up, no one left.

"Sounds like it's time for the return of Burke's Seven," Jones said, picking up is coffee cup and holding it up, as if in a toast.

"Burke's Seven," everyone echoed, including Peter, and smiled for the first time since the night before. He looked to Elizabeth again for strength and support, then told them in great detail all that had transpired from the moment Neal walked into the Café Insomnia.

THE NIGHT BEFORE

Neal unlocked and opened the ancient door to apartment number 309. The paint was cracked and peeling, the wood swollen and no doubt slowly rotting from the inside. He turned on an overhead light before ushering Peter inside the small, one-room apartment that had only recently become his home.

The apartment sat over an Asian grocer's, the kind filled with bags of colorful shrimp chips and stocked with vegetables that seemed both exotic and surreal. Sometimes, the smell of roasting duck or spicy beef and noodles from below wafted up into Neal's room and bade him to come, eat. But rarely did he ever leave his room, unless it was to make a few quick bucks that he would immediately spend to quiet the roaring agony of withdrawal. He never imagined he'd be reduced to doing such a thing, but here he was.

The place seemed as dingy and near-depressing as the coffee shop they had just left. Peter look around the room, his trained eyes taking in and analyzing everything. A full sized mattress lay on the floor covered with crumpled dark blue sheets and a single flat pillow. An old refrigerator hummed loudly and vibrated hard as it struggled to maintain cold. A single plastic sky blue cup, a spoon and a plate sat drying atop a damp paper towel sheet on the faded Formica counter. Two wooden chairs, mismatched, sat at a small folding table that had to be older than Neal. And there were books – quite a few – stacked in a corner and near the bed. Most of them were medical books that dealt with addiction and detoxification, treatment and rehabilitation. Finally Peter noticed a few pieces of clothing hanging neatly on wire hangers on a wooden pole in a closet with no door.

"Why didn't you go back to June's?" Peter asked.

"Like this? I couldn't," he said, hanging up his coat, quite meticulously, Peter noticed. Some of the old Neal was still there. "I couldn't do that to her. I'm not safe like this."

"How long have you lived here?"

"I wouldn't call this living," Neal said. "But I've been here a little over two weeks. I liked the layout better than the last place. The bed is close to the bathroom, which is somewhat roomy. Highly essential to the process. Everything is within reach. Makes the job a little easier."

"I'm not sold on your idea, Neal. I think it's reckless and irresponsible."

"I'm not going to a hospital, Peter. I can't."

"You could die."

"I could die in a hospital, too."

"They have doctors and nurses trained to handle –"

"No, Peter! I've made up my mind. If I go to a hospital, there will be a record. Reports, files, a paper trail. Neal Caffrey, heroin addict. Call it pride, call it fear, call it whatever you want, but I don't want that following me around. I want to come back to the Bureau. Do you think they'd welcome me with open arms if they knew about this?"

"I know about it," said Peter. "Besides, from what you tell me, you're not responsible for this."

"Peter…they made me this, but I chose to stay in it. I'm the one who kept it going. I could've turned myself in weeks ago. I could've gone cold turkey the moment Hauser dumped me on the street. But I didn't. I was a coward. And I was weak. I couldn't take the pain, so I continued to feed the monster."

Peter raised an eyebrow, shook his head ever so slightly.

"That's what I call it. It's easier to live with…the euphemism, the metaphor. Kind of like calling a con a 'sting.' I call my addiction 'the monster' so I don't sound like your average joe-junkie on the street. Feeding the monster. That's how I fool myself into believing all isn't lost, that I'm still somehow… salvageable. All I have to do is quit feeding the monster, and I'm free. If it were only that simple."

"All isn't lost, Neal. I'm here to prove it."

Neal sat on the edge of the bed and sighed deeply. Peter pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of him.

"I did try, right after I moved in here." Neal confessed. His eyes welled up at the memory. "I tried to kick it. I can't begin to describe the hell my body went through. Six hours of that particular kind of hell and I was out the door and looking for my connection. I tried to lift a wallet off a random stranger. My hands were shaking so hard, I tipped my mark, gave myself away. The guy punched me. I hit the ground. He kicked me in the ribs a few times, to make sure I got the message. I got sick all over myself. I was lying in the street, Peter. Nobody stopped to help me. That was when I realized I couldn't do this alone."

Peter couldn't look at him. He stood and went to the kitchen sink. Grabbed the blue cup from the counter and filled it with tap water. Anything to force the image of a broken, beaten Neal lying in the street from his mind. He took the cup to Neal and offered it to him.

"You want my help?" Peter asked. "Tell me everything. Everything, Neal. Don't edit, sanitize or abbreviate. I don't want metaphors, or euphemisms, just the truth. Cold, hard truth. I want to know everything that happened, from the moment you walked out of the Bureau office until your phone call to me."

"It's a long story, Peter. You might want to call Elizabeth and tell her you'll be home a little late."

TWO MONTHS AGO

Freedom had never tasted so sweet. Neal Caffrey walked the New York streets – hands in his pockets, hat tilted just so - taking in the bright, warm weather, oblivious to urgent traffic sounds and piles of garbage bags on the sidewalks. It was wonderful to finally be done with the tracking anklet. Removing it was quite momentous and very satisfying. And it was a joy to know that his time had been served, his debt to society paid in full - and then some - and that he was truly a free man.

He stopped for an Italian ice and enjoyed the cold sweetness on his tongue as if tasting for the very first time. Possibilities were filling his mind, coming out of the proverbial woodwork. He could lay back and enjoy his free time, or maybe take a trip somewhere far away to refresh and rejuvenate. Or he could plan some low-on-the-radar con job just to keep his creative juices flowing. He could look for that big score, like every con does, hoping that this would be the one, the last one, and that he would finally hit pay dirt. Or he could indulge his 'inner fed' and investigate the possibilities joining up with the FBI as a full-fledge agent.

He was guarded about sharing his thoughts about joining the FBI with Peter, afraid the agent might not share his enthusiasm. Why wouldn't he? After all, Peter should be quite proud that he had provided such a positive influence for the otherwise incorrigible Neal Caffrey.

Neal imagined what it would be like to train at Quantico. He feared the young fresh college grads might have it all over him in some areas. He might not be the strongest fighter, and would probably hate every push up, obstacle course and climbing rope he'd be required to conquer. But he knew, regardless of his aversion to guns, that he was a crack-shot, an ace. And his time on the wrong side of the law could be used to everyone's advantage. He knew better than anyone how the criminal mind thinks and responds to stimuli. He'd had quite a lot experience with that.

He tossed his ice cup away and turned the corner to head back to headquarters.

Someone was standing in his way.

"Excuse me," Neal said. It wasn't enough. The looming obstacle of a man remained before him.

"You're excused, Neal," the stranger said. Neal felt his heart beat harder against his chest when he heard his name.

"Do I know you?"

"Linus Hauser would like to see you. "

"Who?" Neal said, looking for a way around the man, a way to run.

"You know who I'm talking about." The big man smile. "Walk with me," he said.

"I'm actually late for an appointment."

"You're gonna walk with me. Or I'm gonna make a phone call."

"Wow. A phone call. Really? How could I turn that down?"

The hulking stranger reached into a pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He speed dialed a number and listened for a beat, then:

"You got eyes on Mr. Havershim?"

Neal felt his blood run cold.

"Good. Take the shot."

"NO!" Neal grabbed for the phone, but the big man held up a fat warning finger. Neal froze. The big man spoke into the phone again.

"Stand down." Then, to Neal, he said, "So, are we gonna take a walk, or are you going to be planning a funeral for your friend?"

Neal nodded. "Let's walk," he said.

End chapter two.


	3. Chapter 3

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 3

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin. Oh, how I long to call him boss. But I know I don't deserve it.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER

It was a penthouse apartment, spacious, meticulously appointed, with a view of New York that was unparalleled. When Neal stepped off the elevator he knew he was in deep trouble because the 'muscle' who had delivered him remained on the elevator. The doors closed, and down he went. If security wasn't needed, then his host must have been quite certain Neal was not going to pose a threat.

Linus Hauser entered. He was a man who was not only used to the finer things, but one got the feeling that the finer things were created specifically for him. He was elegant, tall, and perhaps a bit too thin. He wore all black, looked perpetually close shaven and camera ready. His public business - a thriving art gallery that catered only to the obscenely rich – had been the perfect front. Hauser's real money had come from the import, export and sale of illegal weapons. Homeland Security, ATF, as well as the FBI, had been chomping at the bit to get their hands on Hauser, but no one had been able to get close enough, until Peter had sent Neal in undercover as a high-end art collector with a disposable income and a secondary interest in grenade launchers and assault rifles. Hauser was arrested and held without bond, yet somehow he had been accidentally released after a highly suspicious "clerical error." By the time the Bureau had caught on to the unfortunate snafu, Hauser was already miles away and deep underground, and would remain at the top of the most wanted list. Why would he come out of hiding now, after two years, and come after Neal?

"Mr. Caffrey," he said as he moved to the bar. "Or are you still going by your alias? Mr. Holden, I believe it was." Hauser poured two glasses of expensive single malt and held one out to Neal. Neal didn't want to take it, but somehow felt as if he never really had a choice.

"That was quite a disappearing act you pulled," said Neal. "What brings you back? A guilty conscience?"

Hauser smiled. It wasn't a happy smile.

"Hardly," he said, and then gestured around the room with his glass-filled hand.

This place," he continued, "is all that remains of my former life. The FBI, fortunately, didn't know about it. I've decided to sell it, find a more humble dwelling. To the simple life." He lifted his glass in a half-hearted toast.

Neal lifted his glass slightly, and made sure to smell the liquor before taking a sip. It warmed his mouth and throat, and felt even warmer when it landed smoothly in his stomach. He raised an eyebrow when he recognized the exceptional quality of the single malt.

"So you spent two years successfully eluding the FBI, only to resurface to sell a piece of real estate? Must be a peach. Or you're reckless."

"I came out of hiding because I've lost everything," Hauser spat, "thanks to you. And Agent Burke, of course. I am a man who has nothing more to lose."

"Don't expect me to feel sorry for you. Your weapons were falling into the hands of terrorists. You deserved to lose every cent."

"I'm not talking about the money. I could care less about the money. I'm talking about my son." Hauser sat in a black leather chair and gestured for Neal to have a seat in the chair facing him.

"Daniel was my life," Hauser lamented. "He was bright and clever, though sometimes he seemed a little too sensitive for this world. I wanted to protect him. I know, what kind of father could I possibly be, fighting to protect my child from the evils of the world while contributing to that evil. It was what I knew. Just as a life of deceit and thievery is what you know, Mr. Caffrey.

"You did what no one else had ever been able to do: you brought me down. Your deception helped the FBI make the charges against me stick. I was looking at a lifetime behind bars. So I ran. The hardest part was leaving without saying goodbye to Daniel. To keep him safe from harm, I felt it best he know nothing of my plans. My only dream was to be able to come out of hiding someday and make amends. But thanks to you and Agent Burke, I shall never have that chance."

Hauser finished off his drink in one angry gulp, then rose to go back to bar. He opened a cabinet and removed a metal case. It was about the size of a paperback book. Hauser did not reveal to Neal what was inside.

"Daniel had picked up a very deadly habit while I was away. He became an addict. His drug of choice…heroin. In the time I spent in absentia, my son joined a rather dangerous crowd. He ran away from his mother, and was reduced to living on the streets. Reduced to stealing to support his rather unmanageable habit. There was only so much I could do while in hiding. So I made the decision to reach out to him, risk the FBI finding me. But I was too late.

"Daniel, my only son, died of an overdose. He was found, two weeks ago, in an alley, where he had crawled between two trash dumpsters to give himself what would be his final injection. He was only fifteen."

"I'm sorry," Neal said with sincerity.

"Thank you. But having your pity or condolence was not my objective in bringing you here. You and Agent Peter Burke destroyed my life. You took everything from me. It is only fair that I take something from the both of you."

DING! The elevator doors opened, and the Big Man stepped into room once again. He was wearing black gloves this time.

Neal calculated that the odds of a successful escape were not in his favor. While he hadn't seen any guns yet, it was a sure bet Hauser as well as the Big Man would be carrying concealed weapons. Jumping from the window was not an option, and if there was another door, he hadn't any idea which way it lay. The only way out was the elevator.

Neal stood and threw the glass of single malt as hard as he could at the Big Man, hitting him square between the eyes. He cried out and went down on one knee, temporarily blinded by pain and for the moment out of commission. Neal ran for the elevator and reached for the down button – and found that there wasn't one. He turned to look at Hauser, who was smiling and holding up the white plastic key card.

"I believe you need this to leave, Mr. Caffrey. But you're not going anywhere at the moment."

The Big Man, having pulled himself together rose and delivered a swift and agonizing punch to Neal's gut. Neal immediately collapsed and hit the floor, red faced, coughing and fighting for breath.

"Bring him," Hauser said. The Big Man pulled Neal up by the back of his shirt and vest, then delivered a swinging blow to Neal's face. He was floating somewhere on the edge of consciousness, someplace where pain only registered as a clouded concept, as the Big Man hoisted Neal upon a substantial shoulder and carried him effortlessly out of the room.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

Music was playing. Guitar…amazing guitar…amazing voice.

"_Hey Joe, where you goin' with that gun in your hand…_

Neal fought to open his eyes, feeling the pain of every hit the Big Man had delivered growing as awareness was becoming sharper.

"_He Joe, where you goin' with that gun in your hand…"_

When his eyes did finally open, he saw a high ceiling, a sky light with a waning sun angling through tinted glass. How long had he been out? He shook his head. Realized he was lying on a bed. Not his. He tried to rise but something forced him back down. He looked and found that his hands were restrained, cuffed to the bed's shiny brass railing.

"_I'm going out to shoot my old lady, you know I caught her messin' 'round with another man…."_

Neal tried to sit up, but the restraints left no room for any movement. And he wasn't alone. The Big Man stood nearby, watching him. Hauser was sitting in a chair next to the bed. He was holding an old battered spoon with a bent handle.

"Welcome back, Mr. Caffrey. Do you like the music? It's Hendrix, Jimi Hendrix. Genius, isn't he? Listening to him breaks my heart. I remembered when he died. I was a little boy, maybe eight or nine. At the time they said he had died of a drug overdose. I didn't truly understand what that meant. I do now."

Neal was becoming more and more agitated. He tried to sit up again, but still could not.

"You should know Peter Burke will not give up until he finds me!"

"I want Agent Burke to find you! I want him to tear up all of Manhattan looking for you until he finds you. And when he does, I want you both to wish he hadn't."

Hauser held the bent spoon closer to show Neal. "This is the only thing I have left to remind me of my son. I found it when I visited the alley where he died, long after they'd removed his body. I image it was his, and that he used it." Hauser then picked up a small packet of white powder from the table and shook it in a tantalizing manner. "He used this, too…or something like it. I made sure this was purer. I wanted your first experience to be…special."

"You can't do this, Linus!" Neal said, fighting to keep his voice steady, hoping to somehow appeal to the man on the most human level. "You want me dead, I get it. You want to hurt Peter Burke, I understand. But you can't hold us responsible for the choices your son made!"

"I can and I do. Besides, this is far more merciful than my original plan."

Hauser tapped the contents of the packet into the bowl of the spoon. He then opened the silver metal case and revealed its contents to Neal – four identical hypodermic syringes.

Neal pulled harder, feeling the steel of the cuffs bite and rub raw the skin of his wrists as he tried to free himself. The Big Man moved forward to stop him, but Hauser calmly held up a hand to stop his employee.

"Hauser! Don't do this."

Hauser kept about his business. He squirted a bead of water into the spoon, then held the flame of a disposable cigarette lighter under the spoon and watched with twisted fascination as it bubbled up and melted and turned into the concoction that would be the instrument of his revenge.

"Roll up Mr. Caffrey's sleeve," Hauser said. The Big Man moved forward immediately and unbuttoned the right cuff of Neal's shirt, then rolled it up. Neal did everything he could to move away from him, but his efforts were in vain.

"What heroin lacks in elegance," Hauser began, "it makes up for in efficiency. One can develop a rather urgent habit in as little as one week, if used daily, frequently, and consistently. Or so I have been told. We are about to find out, Mr. Caffrey." To his aide, he said, "His tie, if you please."

The Big Man removed Neal's vintage silk tie and knotted it tightly around his upper arm.

"Hmm," Hauser said with a glassy eyed smile, "you have good veins."

"Please," Neal said, "Don't do this. Don't…"

Hauser didn't listen. He drew the liquid into the syringe and put down the now empty spoon. He carefully checked the syringe, squirted out a bit, then clicked it a few times with a finger.

"We must make sure there are no air bubbles…that could cause a nasty embolism, and that would drastically cut short our time together."

"I have…I have a Raphael…" Neal said, making a last ditch attempt at bargaining.

"A Raphael?" Hauser seemed to consider this for a moment. "You would give me a Raphael to keep me from doing this to you?

"Yes! Yes," Neal said, barely able to breathe. "It's yours. Just let me go, and I'll take you to it."

"It's very tempting," Hauser said as he pondered the possibility. "But I have my heart set on this. This is your new prison, Neal Caffrey. This is your new master." To the Big Man, Hauser said, "Hold him still."

Neal fought has hard has he could even with his limited mobility. The Big Man held him down as Hauser moved in, bringing the syringe closer to Neal, light glinting off the sharp point of the needle.

"Don't," Neal said. It was all he could say. "Don't…"

Hauser was not at all gentle has he jabbed the needle into Neal's blood-engorged vein. Neal closed his eyes, unable to watch, not wanting to know, praying to escape, and hoping against hope that Peter was on his way.

End Chapter 3. Reviews are like food to me.


	4. Chapter 4

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 4

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin.

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

BURKE HOME

Peter waited, his trained eyes observing the reactions and perceiving the thoughts of those closest to him, gathered in his living room. He identified with their sorrow at his truncated account of Neal's nightmarish journey, giving them a small luxury of time to let it all sink in.

Some held their breath in fear while others breathed deeply in disgust. Some let slip silent tears while others indulged in brief fantasies of vengeance on behalf of the person who connected all of them together. Peter had needed space and time himself after Neal had told him the entire story the night before. He had left Neal, who sat quietly on his mattress staring at his trembling hands, for a few minutes to step out into the hall and let pent up emotions and unshed tears have their way with him. A fist to the wall had left a deep crack in the ancient plaster, but the satisfaction it gave Peter was all too brief. With time and space to absorb, question, and come to terms with the ominous facts, he was able to come up with the foundation a plan to save his friend. But he knew he couldn't do it alone.

June dabbed away free flowing tears with a delicate lace handkerchief, and offered a second, perfectly pressed one to Sara, which she gratefully accepted. Jones stood and turned his back to everyone, not wanting to share what was written on his grieving face. Diana sat with a hand over her mouth, shaking her head ever so slightly. "Unbelievable," she whispered, along with a few choice expletives in reference to Linus Hauser and all the ways she would bring him pain in retribution.

Mozzie simply stared vacantly at the floor. He had no philosophical quotes or comical quips to offer to diffuse the tension in the room. He grieved at the thought that if Neal had not dared reach out to Peter the night before, he may well have lost his greatest friend and confidant. He moved only to pull off his John Lennon-esque glasses and wearily hold his head.

Elizabeth rose and went to her husband, drawn to him always whether in misery or joy. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly. Peter buried his face in her soft dark hair, grateful for the loving distraction and wanting to never let her go.

"So, what's the next step?" Jones asked, finally breaking the stark silence. "Do we go all 'Intervention' on Neal?"

Elizabeth pulled away so that Peter could answer, but she remained close at his side.

"That won't be necessary," said Peter. "Neal wants to be clean. That's why he called me. Only…"

"Only what?" Mozzie asked.

"He refuses to go to a hospital."

Mozzie nodded self-righteously. "An understandable and wise decision."

"No," said Peter, frowning. "Not understandable, not wise. He needs medical supervision."

Elizabeth put a hand on Peter's shoulder. "There's got to be something we can do, hon."

"El, I want to help Neal, too. But he's adamant about the way he wants to do this. I'm afraid if I push the hospital idea further, or try something else, he'll bolt. We'll lose him, and he'll keep using until it kills him."

Sara rose, a hand on her chest as if she could hardly breathe. "Then let's just do as he asks, Peter. Why don't we do as he asks?"

"If you knew where he was, you'd understand. It's a dive. A rat trap. It's not the kind of place that's conducive to Neal's health. It's in a rough area. The entire apartment is smaller than this room. There's a mattress on the floor, and not much else."

"Then why don't we bring him here!" Elizabeth said. Everyone looked up hopefully.

"I honestly don't think Neal would go for that. He doesn't want anyone to know. That's why he disappeared."

"Fine," Sara said, losing her patience. "Then let's just do what he asks, do whatever Neal says. Rough neighborhoods and dirty rooms don't bother me, not if it means saving Neal. I can stay with him for a few days and watch him. I don't care where he is. We'll work with whatever we've got."

"I'm with Sara," said Diana. "Let's go now."

"Now hold on," Peter said. "This isn't exactly a babysitting detail. You need to understand exactly what you're signing on for. Neal will be going through a very violent withdrawal. It isn't going to be pretty. We're talking days and nights on end of seizures, delirium, and host of bodily reactions that would make the hardiest of medical professionals rethinking their calling."

"Peter," June said, and stood up, almost regally, as if to address the entire room. "I have only one thing to ask, and I think I speak for us all - when do we start?"

Everyone turned to Peter and simply stared at him, all united in their desire to save Neal.

Peter smiled. He knew he could count on them. He knew they would show themselves true.

"If I could weigh in on this, Suit…"

Everyone turned to Mozzie.

"I was wondering when we were going to hear from you," Peter said.

"Two points: One, if Mohammed, that is Neal, can't come to the mountain, i.e. hospital, why not bring the hospital to Neal?"

"Meaning?"

"Let's just say, I have this friend, who has another friend, whose cousin just happens to know someone who used to be a doctor."

"Used to be a doctor?"

"He had a little…disagreement with the board of trustees of a rather prestigious hospital about a few, shall we say…non-traditional treatment procedures. Suffice to say that while he lost the sheepskin, he has retained his unique ability as a healer. He has since reshaped his career into a sort of unofficial boutique medical consultancy to the rich and somewhat infamous."

Peter shook his head. "Let me guess: He removes bullets from dubious guys on backroom pool tables with needle nose pliers and a bottle of whisky."

"Or whatever MacGyver like-instruments happen to be within reach."

"He's a hack."

"He's a brilliant hack. And he knows little something about what Neal is going through…having gone through it himself. He has also aided in the safe removal of a few monkeys from the backs of a several high profile public figures. Who will, of course remain nameless, so don't ask me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," said Peter. "I want to talk to your quasi-doctor friend first. He doesn't go anywhere near Neal without my approval. Got that?"

"Your implied threat has been duly noted, Suit."

"So, what's the second point?"

"My second point," Mozzie continued, "concerns the unsanitary nature of Neal's current domicile. I'm assuming you'll need something that's not only clean, but comes with space, a decent bed, and ample supplies in a relatively safe-from-scrutiny environment. Therefore, I would like to offer you…Thursday."

"Thursday?" Diana asked. "What's happening on Thursday?"

Peter smiled. "Thursday isn't a when, Diana. It's a where."

"What?"

"If I remember correctly," Peter said, "you once said Thursday has a view."

"Suit," said Mozzie, "you have no idea."

~wc~

Peter quickly climbed the squealing steps of the four story walk up, anxious to share with Neal everything he had discussed and planned with the rest of the crew. He smiled at the thought of calling them his crew. He knew it would encourage and amuse Neal as well if he knew, but it was best to keep secret all the hands involved in Burke's Seven's latest sting.

Down the hall he went until he came upon Neal's apartment. He reached out to knock but noticed that the door was ajar. His agent senses tingling, he quickly reached for his gun and slowly, cautiously, pushed the door the rest of the way open, looking and listening for intruders.

"Neal…?"

There was no response, no sounds from inside, no acknowledgement that Neal was either safe or present. Peter guardedly entered and looked around the small room, training the gun on every corner, but no one lay in wait. He noticed there was a thin band of light under the bathroom door. He moved to the door, hoping against hope that he would not find his friend on the cold, chipped tile floor, dead or dying. He quickly recalled CPR technique just in case as he reached out for the door, holding the gun steady and sure. He twisted the doorknob and slowly pushed inward.

What he saw made his heart sink.

Neal was seated upon the closed toilet, head back against the mildewed wall. He was half in, half out of consciousness, lost in the throes of a heroin-induced stupor. His shirt sleeve was rolled up high, and a silk neck tie was knotted tightly around his upper arm. An empty syringe was still dangling from his arm, still inserted in a deflating vein that leaked a thin line of blood down his cradled arm, dripping slowly onto the floor. The bathroom still smelled of cooked drug. A bent, twisted spoon lay on the floor by Neal's pale, bare feet.

"Aw, Neal…" Peter lamented, his voice weakened with sorrow. "Neal…"

Neal's eyebrow raised a touch in reaction to the sound of Peter's voice. He made a sound, something of a moan that was intended to be a word. He soon slipped back under the tattered blanket of the drug's ever-diminishing euphoria.

Peter holstered his gun and stepped out of the bathroom, wanting to vomit.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER

Neal washed his face and hands and cleaned up, tossing the used needle in a plastic covered trash can and clearing away all evidence of his recent monster feeding. The crushing pain that was creeping up on him earlier, threatening to overcome him, was now gone. The itching had quieted, and his body temperature had returned to something akin to normal. Once done with the bathroom, and after surveying his work to make sure he hadn't missed any telltale signs, he opened the door.

"Peter!"

Neal practically jumped out of his skin when he found the agent sitting in a chair just outside the bathroom.

"The door was open," said Peter in a deep quiet voice that Neal knew meant he was in some trouble. "You shouldn't leave your door open like that, not in this neighborhood."

"Right," said Neal, straining to smile, "I guess I got a little careless."

"Guess you had other things on your mind."

"I was going to make some coffee. Can I make you a cup?"

Peter said nothing, only shook his head.

Neal went quickly to the kitchenette, unable to look Peter in the eyes. Disgrace and humiliation made him tight-lipped and evasive. He turned up the water hard as he ran it into a dented sauce pan and busily set about preparing a one cup coffee press with cheap, dollar store espresso.

"How long have you been here?" Neal finally asked.

"Long enough," said Peter. "Long enough to see."

Neal deliberately, angrily swiped the glass coffee press to the floor. His pulled back his hair from his forehead, and stared down at his own bare feet.

"You going to shame me now, Peter? Tell me what a disappointment I am, what a loser…. That I'm weak? Well, just save it, okay? Because there's nothing you can say to me that I haven't already said to myself."

Peter stood. His voice softened. "I'm not here to shame you, Neal. I'm here because I want to help you."

"_Then help me, Peter_. Help me."

Peter moved to the broken coffee press, picking up shattered piece of glass and plastic.

"I will. But I'm not agreeing to all of your terms. If you want my help you're going to have to agree to a few of mine...such as…"

"I'm not sure I like where this is going…"

"…such as…When was the last time you had a meal?"

"What day is it?"

Peter tossed the broken pieces into the sink. "Let's go. First we eat, then we talk."

"I'm really not hungry, Peter."

"So what? Come sit with me while I eat. Go. Get your coat. Now."

"Peter…"

"Now mean now, Neal."

"Some things never change," said Neal as he moved to the closet to retrieve his coat.

~WC~

They sat at small table in a crowded corner at the back of the Asian Market, where quick meals were dished out onto Styrofoam plates by a woman in a grey-haired wig that sat haphazardly on her head. Even though Neal claimed to have no appetite, he ate a hearty portion of fried rice, two servings of egg drop soup and two of four fat, grease-soaked eggrolls.

Peter tried to not watch Neal's every move, but he couldn't help it. He still could not get over how thin and gaunt his friend had become, and in only a few short months. The abuse he had must have been crushing, devastating, he envisioned, and fought to suppress the thought. But happily there was still that spark in his eyes, not quite gone dull yet from months of drug use. His friend was still inside, the part of him that truly counted.

Peter picked up a fortune cookie and proffered the other one to Neal.

"What's it say?" asked Peter.

"According to the Peking Cookie company," Neal said as he pulled the slip of paper from the cracked confection, "I'm going on a long voyage and will meet many old friends. Hm."

Peter couldn't hide the smile, or the sudden tearing of his eyes. He wiped his face quickly with a hand and looked away.

"What?" Neal asked, practically demanded.

"Nothing," said Peter. Then, "I want you to do something. I want you to go somewhere with me."

"No. I told you, I'm nothing going…"

"Relax," Peter said, "I'm not taking you to the hospital. Would you just listen? You need a bigger place."

"Why would I need a bigger place?"

"You need a cleaner place."

"I disinfected the room myself."

"Nice job, Martha Stewart, but if you want my help…"

"Fine!" Neal said, a little too loudly. Several people in the market turned for a glance, but went back to their shopping, satisfied they were in no danger.

"Fine," Neal repeated at a more subtle tone. "Where are we going?"

"Thursday."

"We're not going till Thursday?"

"No…we are going to Thursday. Mozzie has offered us Thursday."

"Mozzie knows? Peter! You told Moz?"

"Keep it down to a dull roar, Neal."

"Peter, I didn't want him to know!"

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't do this alone."

"You couldn't…I didn't want…" Neal's voice trailed off. His face turned red from unexploded anger, from deep-seated shame, from fear of exposure. He laced his fingers in front of his face, elbows on the table and gnawed on a thumbnail that had already been bitten down to nearly nothing.

"Neal, listen to me. I told Mozzie, and I'm not sorry. Your little friend, for all his faults, foibles and fractured view of all things legal, knows how to get things done. Things I can't touch because I carry a badge. Face it, we need Mozzie. You need Mozzie."

"You're right," Neal whispered between clenched teeth. "It's just that…"

"I know," Peter reassured him.

"How much did you tell him? How much does he know?"

Peter considered lying to Neal, but decided against it. "All of it."

"And he still…"

"Absolutely."

Neal reached out with a trembling hand for his cup of oolong tea. He could barely bring it to his lips without the tremor growing worse. He ignored it and took a careful sip, hoping to calm his nerves.

"He wants to help you, Neal," Peter continued. "You know, you've done a lot of bad things, made a lot of mistakes in life. But the one thing you've done exceedingly well is choose your friends, the people closest to you. We care, and we will move heaven and earth for you. You just have to let us."

Neal took a long moment to let all of it sink in. He nodded, unable to trust his voice while so much emotion was flooding his system.

"Mozzie's giving up Thursday for me? I'm grateful. Peter…you didn't tell anyone else, did you?"

"I…I may have…"

"Peter… tell me you didn't tell Elizabeth."

"She's my wife. No secrets. I promised."

"And she's on board with this?"

"Are you kidding? She wanted me to bring you to the house!"

Neal smiled, the first true Neal Caffrey smile Peter had seen since the tracking anklet came off.

"According to Moz," Neal said, "Thursday's supposed to have a spectacular view."

"So I've heard." Peter lifted his tea cup and held it out to Neal for a toast. "I guess we're both about to find out."

End Chapter 4.

_A big, big thank you to everyone for reading. Reviews are like chocolate to me…please share! _


	5. Chapter 5

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 5

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin.

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

_Note: If you like listening to music while you read, try Porcupine Tree's "Fade Away" and "Up the Downstair" while reading this chapter. It's what I listened to while writing it. _

HAUSER'S PENTHOUSE

He had lost all track of time as well as the desire to know or care what day it was. What Neal once called life or living had diminished into compressed, mayfly-like moments of quasi-lucidity between lingering bouts of unreality that had left him trembling, exhausted and devoid of anything resembling the ability to fight. His stomach ached and roared with hollow hunger, but filling it was no longer a priority. The only time he drank water was when the Big Man, with his thick, hot hands, would force his mouth open and pour it down his throat despite his choking protests. Once or twice he remembered being released from the cuffs, being pulled to his feet and half carried to a bathroom by the Big Man, who insisted on remaining and waiting in the room until Neal had finished. At least the Big Man had had the courtesy to turn his back to offer Neal a morsel of privacy. Not that Neal cared about much of anything anymore.

There was only the haze.

There were no more cons or schemes to occupy his mind, to call upon his imagination and challenge his intellect. His instinctual need to leave, to escape, to be free had become like so much chaff blown by a strong wind. All he knew was the drug's all encompassing affect - the surge of incomprehensible euphoria, the roiling ocean of joy and terror, bliss and despair. Troubles no longer existed, worries had all dissipated. Pain was nonexistent, as evidenced by his wrists which were rubbed raw and bloodied, skin broken and soft tissue horribly twisted by the unyielding metal of the handcuffs. Neal had felt none of it. He no longer even felt or protested the prick of the needle as it penetrated his skin and vein.

There was only the haze.

After the first injection, Neal was no longer aware or concerned with Hauser's presence. His only concern was if the haze would continue. The first time, Neal had begged, bargained, and pleaded for amnesty. The second time he begged, even cried, feebly trying to hold onto his sanity as the natural urge to survive seemed as though it might just be slipping away. The third time, he laughed. It was a mirthless laugh devoid of any semblance of joy; it was morbid and even a bit perverse. It was a laugh that said Neal Caffrey was no longer there; he had given up, given in, and abandoned himself. After several more shots, which could have been ten or a thousand over the course of hours, days or weeks, Neal lost count. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

There was only the haze.

And the dreams.

Some were like vibrant revelations, dreams of hallowed mountain tops spewing lightning and lava, electric blue crackling skies and ultra calm seas. He was flying, soaring. He was invincible, immortal. He was rich beyond measure, powerful as a king, and far more clever than any man who had ever walked the earth.

Other dreams were dark nightmares, haunting portents where phantoms hid in wait and leaped from shrouded corners. Claws and teeth ripped through his flesh, shredding muscle and splintering bones. Hands came out of the mattress, hundreds of angry hands, determined to strangle him. Darkness became liquid and overwhelmed him. Voices from his past threatened him, taunted him, and castigated him for things he had done or merely imagined. Worst were the visions of people he knew and loved, his past and present come to haunt and punish him.

"Neal…"

He opened his eyes wide and felt his entire body became as ice when Kate appeared before him. She was wearing the same stunning black dress she was wearing the first time he met her, when Adler had introduced them. And her eyes were such an astounding, astonishing blue that they illuminated the entire room.

"Kate…Kate…you are so beautiful…I love you…always love you…" he whispered in a tremulous voice, between cracked lips and tears.

But this apparition of Kate had no words of love for him. She turned to stone before his eyes - warm, supple, living flesh hardened into cold, monstrous gray stone, and then exploded violently into a thousand tiny, wet red pebbles that sat suspended in midair before raining down on Neal. Each pebble burned his flesh like fire until he was able to let out a gurgling scream.

And then Mozzie appeared before him. Not standing and not well, , but lying still as the dead in a hospital bed, attached to a strange and infinite number of multi-colored tubes and IVs, his face bluish white and threaded with dark blue veins that pulsated as life support machines beeped and clicked and whirred.

"Moz…?"

The tubes began to move, to writhe, and become snakes, thousands of slithering snakes that slowly began to multiply and fill the room. A yellow constrictor at least twelve feet long found its way to Neal's bed. He screamed, begged for help, kicked and fought as the thing wrapped itself around his body and began to squeeze, and squeeze…

Just when he thought his mind would explode, he opened his eyes to find the snake gone, but Hauser standing over him, needle in hand.

"Send the nightmares away…" Neal begged him, his voice hitching with miserable sobs. "Please make the nightmares go away."

Hauser was more than happy to oblige.

This became the nature of Neal's routine, the breaking, rebuilding and reshaping of him: Nightmare, injection, visitation, injection, hallucination, injection….

Which is why, when Neal awakened suddenly and with his mind fairly clear (though absent a few facts and finer points), he was surprised and afraid, as if this sweet and merciful sobriety were a sham, and at any moment the horror show would begin anew.

But it did not.

He was aware that it was morning, but was this the next day, or two or three days later? How long had he been…here?

It took him a moment to remember what "here" was – Linus Hauser's penthouse. He remembered the skylight. Then, he noticed that only one hand was now handcuffed to the brass bed post. Not exactly progress, but at least he could sit up now.

He pulled his aching, weakened body up slowly, groaning as he moved to sit on the side of the bed. He was dizzy, nauseous. Neal looked down at himself and noticed that his open shirt and tee shirt were filthy, stained with layers of old sweat and some substance that looked to be dried vomit. His body had a foul, acrid smell he could not stand, and he shivered a bit with cold as well as weakness. The ache and burn of his wrists – one of which appeared to have been bandaged recently – clued him to the fact that he was not, at the moment, stoned out of his mind. He knew he was Neal Caffrey, and all of this, for better or worse, was real. He knew he had been kidnapped and drugged. The singular issue remaining was, how long had it been?

He pulled up his sleeve to have a look at his arm, and tried to count the needle marks with eyes too blurry to see clearly. He heard a noise that startled him, and looked up to find the Big Man walking toward him, carrying a silver metal tray.

The smell of eggs and coffee made Neal's stomach growl and turn sour all at once.

"What day is it?" Neal asked. The Big Man remained silent; he merely sat the tray down on the bed next to Neal and walked out.

"Where's Hauser?" Neal shouted at the man's back, but there was still no answer.

He lifted the tray cover to see what was on his plate. Two eggs, over easy, yolks staring like plump demonic eyes at him. Dry toast cut into wedges. Even as his stomach rumbled at the thought of food, it also promised to return violently whatever might find its way into his system. Neal covered the food again and rubbed his face.

He was shocked to feel how thick and wiry his facial hair had grown. This could only mean it had been far more than a day since his ordeal had begun. More like four or five. He went for the food cover again, using it as a mirror. The distorted image looking back at him verified what he had imagined and dreaded – he'd been held captive and kept under the influence of heroin for at least a week. He felt dizzy at the thought of so much lost time, and despaired that he had not yet been found_. Where was Peter? Wasn't he coming? Or had he given up? Did he even care…?_

"You're awake."

Neal dropped the tray cover and looked up to find Hauser entering the room, hands behind his back.

"I imagine food is not much of a priority at the moment," said Hauser. "That is the pernicious nature of heroin. It is a jealous beast that demands fidelity and exclusivity."

Neal tried to stand up, but the cuffs did not give as much room to move as he needed. His damaged and infected wrist made him cry out; he was forced to sit back on the bed to ease the pain.

"You've had your fun, Hauser," Neal demanded, panting for breath. "Let me go." He wanted to sound strong and forceful, but his voice was far too raw and weak from nights of screaming at phantasms.

Hauser said nothing, but revealed what he'd been keeping behind his back - it was a syringe, filled and ready to be delivered.

"No... okay?" Neal pleaded. "No more. You made your point. You got away with it. Peter hasn't found me yet. Let me go."

"Your life for my son's," Hauser reminded Neal. "We are, more or less, half way through the process. I imagine your system is adapting to the drug. You are coming to the point where you won't be able to exist without it. Now…would you like your fix before or after breakfast?"

Neal muttered a harsh expletive, which only succeeded in making Hauser smile.

"Why don't we wait a bit then?" Hauser said. "In about an hour or so, you'll probably be begging me for it. At least, that is the hope."

Neal had no intention of begging Hauser for anything. He remembered who he was, his reputation, his particular talent for thinking and acting his way out of the worst of situations. This was no different from the time he almost got trapped in at the Italian Consulate, or worked his way into the reception at the Russian embassy. It was just as harrowing as when he was held captive by Ryan Wilkes or as dangerous as being trapped in a room devoid of oxygen. All he had to do was to think.

But try as he might, no bright ideas sprang forth, no solutions presented themselves. And then it dawned on him. It was like a warm blanket of relief, knowing there was something he could do. Even if he got caught, it would be better than sitting here waiting for fate to place its final blow. All he had to do was be Neal Caffrey.

Neal Caffrey would pick the lock on the cuffs.

First, he needed something to use. The problem before him was that the cuffs did not allow him to get far enough to search the room for the proper tool. Start with something simple, he told himself, and he immediately turned to his tray.

Hauser had been smart enough not to put anything on the tray Neil could use as a weapon. Other than the paper plate of food, the tray cover, and the paper hot cup, there was only a thin brown napkin advertising a popular coffee franchise, and a plastic spoon.

That would just have to do.

Neal grabbed the spoon and gave it a good look, noticing all the planes and contours. Then he put it in his mouth and bit down. In a few moments, working the spoon with tongue and teeth and spitting away small sharp pieces of plastic, he managed to fashion the disposable utensil into a sharp point that he hoped would be sturdy enough to manipulate the locking mechanism.

He slid the freshly chewed point into the cuff's lock, hoping his normal alertness and sensitivity of his fingers would serve him especially now. Crack…he felt a bit of the spoon break off. He took a deep breath and refocused his concentration once again on the task. He worked the spoon as deftly as his condition would allow, hoping neither Hauser nor the Big Man would return until the job was long since done and Neal was down the elevator and heading back to the safety of the FBI headquarters.

Crack. The last bit of the spoon broke. Neal cursed harshly under his breath. The lock remained fast, and he was still a prisoner.

Neal flung the broken plastic away and sank down, his back scraping hard against the side of the bed, his imprisoned wrists pulling and bleeding once again, until his rump hit the floor hard.

He had run out of ideas. Worse, he had run out of hope.

_Where are you, Peter? _

TWO HOURS LATER

"Hauser! HAUSER!"

Neal had been yelling his captor's name for the better part of an hour. The cramping deep in his gut was becoming unbearable. The itching of his skin was beginning to drive him as close to insanity as he had ever been. One minute his body was blazing hot, the next minute he was freezing down to the bone, his body jerking and shivering uncontrollably. He had never sweated so profusely in his life. He knew to his deep despair that the only thing that would bring his suffering to a momentary end was the needle. The beast had laid claim to him, and just as Hauser had said, it was demanding his fidelity and obedience.

"Hauser! Please…."

He opened his eyes to find both Hauser and the Big Man standing over him. Hauser made a small gesture, and instantly the Big Man bent down to lift Neal back onto the bed.

"Gently," Hauser chided his charge, as if Neal was of some concern to him. "Now, Mr. Caffrey, what would like me to do?"

"You know."

"Do I?"

"JUST DO IT."

"You have to ask. Nicely. If you want the pain to go away, you have to ask nicely," Hauser said with a grim smile.

Neal's suffering was intensifying. Something deep in his bones told him that he was at the end of what he could take. This was not the time to stand up to Hauser, to be strong and stand his ground.

"I…I…I'll take that shot now," he said as deferentially as he could manage.

Hauser was all too happy to oblige.

DAYS LATER

Neal awoke without the haze for the second time since his captivity. His mind was lucid enough for him to know that his body was failing him. He was weak from lack of food and little water. He needed to get to a hospital.

He needed to get to Peter.

Neal moved to sit up and noticed that the cuffs were completely gone this time. Both wrists were bandaged and free. His clothes had been laundered – his white shirt, while ruined by lingering stains, was clean and crisp. His tee-shirt and pants had been cleaned was well. He sat up, felt the room spin, and held tightly to the side of the mattress until his equilibrium returned, breathing deeply. He moved slowly, cautiously to stand, and felt the room move and his feeble legs quaver under his diminishing weight. A hand to the wall to hold him steady, and Neal was able to walk around just enough to shake the pins and needles-feeling from his extremities.

This is good, Neal thought. He kept his ears trained for telltale signs of Hauser and the Big Man coming, but thankfully, he heard nothing. It was as if he were in the penthouse _alone._

_Could that be? _ Would Hauser truly be so careless to leave Neal alone, out of bonds? Perhaps he had reasoned that Neal would be too far under the influence of the drug to flee, yet here he was, moderately sober, somewhat coherent, and formulating a plan.

Neal found his shoes, but no socks, and picked them up, holding them to his chest. He wouldn't waste time putting them on; he could do that in the elevator. Best to move quickly.

As Neal came down the short corridor, he caught a glimpse of himself in an ornate mirror. He gasped, barely recognizing the man who stared wide eyed back at him. His cheeks seemed sunken, and his oily hair and scraggly beard made him look worse than when he was in prison.

Neal made his way quietly into the living area, where so many days before he had sipped expensive whiskey with Hauser before battling with the Big Man. And then it hit him: the elevator required an electronic key card to operate. Easy enough for the old Neal Caffrey to override, with the right equipment, but how was he going to accomplish it now?

He looked around the room, hoping to find a laptop, tools, anything to get his imagination going. That was when he saw it.

The key. A white plastic card, identical to the one Hauser had showed him before, was sitting on the coffee table, atop a fat, wide book examining the many works of Vincent Van Gogh. Could Hauser again be so careless? Then it occurred to Neal: perhaps this was exactly what Hauser wanted. It could be some kind of trap, but he could not fathom the logic of such a thing. Perhaps the plan all along had been to torture Neal and simply let him go. It seemed somehow anti-climactic to Neal, so much planning and preparation to just abandon him. Could something have gone wrong, forcing Hauser back into hiding, back underground?

Neal realized that while there were thousands of possibilities, there was only one answer, and trying to figure it out was time better spent getting as far away from the penthouse as possible. He reached for the key.

That's when he saw what else Hauser had left for him.

It was a filled syringe.

Ice ran through Neal's veins as he stared at it. It was as if the thing had a voice that was modulated strictly for Neal's frequency. Suddenly he was aware of a shivering rush of heat through his body, and cramping beginning to gnaw at his insides. He was sweating profusely. In another hour or so, he would be doubled over and screaming and retching and heaving again.

Neal reached for the key card, but stopped. It was only logical to take advantage of the situation. Wasn't it?

Neal hesitated, working the idea the way he usually worked a con, looking at all sides of it, seeking weak spots in the details and how to avoid them. He was beginning to shake, and knew that he was on the edge of withdrawal. He postulated that running would be difficult if his withdrawal symptoms became overwhelming. There was only one way to be sure, one thing to do.

Neal bypassed the key card and reached for the syringe.

He hunkered down on the floor and fought with trembling fingers to roll up a sleeve. He aimed the point of the needle at his arm, but hesitated. Wait, this wasn't right, he thought. He had never done anything like this before. He wasn't even sure he knew how! Not to mention the fact that Neal hated needles almost as much as he hated guns!

But the siren call of the beast was stronger than logic, more powerful than good sense, and demanded obedience or punishment. He opted out of tying off his arm to raise a vein, thinking there would be no time. He'd shoot up and leave immediately, hoping the monster in syringe would cooperate and help him escape.

Neal jabbed the needle into what he hoped was a vein and gasped. He withdrew the plunger until his blood drew in and mixed with the monster, then delivered it into his body. The haze returned, and while it was nowhere near the Shangri La-like euphoria of the first shot, it still had its own music, its own sweetness. Neal collapsed on the floor, needle still in his arm, and entered the dreamed.

Hauser and the Big Man returned ten minutes later to find Neal still on the floor, singing to a tune only Neal could hear. Hauser was pleased.

"The transformation is complete," he told his man. Then, squatting down to talk softly to Neal, pushing a lock of dark hair off the conman's damp forehead, he said, "Time for you to go."

END CHAPTER FIVE

_Thank you so much for reading. Please review if you feel so obliged. _


	6. Chapter 6

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 6

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin.

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

_I'm cold and I'm so afraid_

_That I'm too weak and I can't change_

_I've been buried alive and I don't want to be here anymore_

_Reached out a thousand times for a hand to pull me from below_

_I've been buried alive in a world of constant sorrow_

_Reach down tonight and set me free_

_Save tomorrow_

"Buried Alive" by Alter Bridge

~WC~

THE PRESENT

Neal and Peter walked the streets of Manhattan, following the vaguely detailed directions Mozzie had given Peter earlier. While Peter had insisted on being given a simple address, Mozzie had argued that Thursday technically had no address, at least not officially, which is why Thursday was the perfect safe house.

Neal seemed anxious and fidgety during the walk, his nerves frayed and mind at times preoccupied – no doubt by the arduous task at hand - but then easily distracted by normal street sounds most people blocked out or ignored. Peter also noticed him scratching a lot, fingers constantly digging into arm flesh to stop some unrelenting itch. The agent fought to overlook it at first. When he no longer could, he stopped and turned to Neal, face to face, eye to eye.

"What?" Neal asked innocently. "What is it?"

"What's with you? Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Neal answered, not hiding his irritation, "Let's keep walking."

"Neal…"

"I'm hurting a little, Peter. Okay?"

"You mean you need to dose again."

"Yeah, I do. But I'm okay. Another hour or so and I won't be."

"You're not going to..."

"No," Neal answered. "I mean…I don't know..."

He moved past Peter and kept walking. "If we don't find Thursday soon, I may have to."

Peter grabbed Neal by the arm to stop him. "You won't have to."

Neal's blue eyes seemed wide and wild; there was fear of suffering, fear of pain. Deep down, he also feared disappointing Peter as much as himself.

"I don't want to, but…."

"Neal…you won't have to."

"I don't know if I can do this…"

"You reached out to me, remember? I'm here. We can do this. We're going to do this."

"I'm scared, Peter."

"I know." Peter relaxed his hold on Neal's arm and looked away. "So am I," he confessed. "But I'm not letting you back out of this. You're going to make it, and I'm going to be with you every step of the way. You got that?"

"Yeah," Neal said, and the men resumed walking. "Only…what about the bureau? How are you keeping off their radar for this?"

"You let me worry about the bureau."

"No, seriously," Neal insisted, "How can you do this without taking time off? Hughes can't be too happy with you right now. Wait…Hughes doesn't know, does he? Did you tell him?"

"Hughes doesn't know anything."

"Please don't tell me you're going to let this eat up all your vacation time."

"Will you just leave the details to me?"

"No."

"Fine," Peter said, somewhat agitated, not wanting to disclose everything to Neal before finding Thursday, but having little choice.

"Okay, here's the deal. I created a bogus file. Gave this place a phony address. For the next two weeks I am going to be on surveillance detail, watching the comings and goings of a fictional bond forger and art thief known only as The Mechanic."

"The Mechanic. I like it. Does that make me Charles Bronson? Or Jason Statham?"

"No movie trivia. At the same time, I'm working on a way flush Linus Hauser out of hiding and make sure he never gets out of prison again. After we get you back on your feet, I will simply file a report indicating a lack of evidence; quote something from last quarter's budget report citing fiscal responsibility, and call off the surveillance. Case closed."

"Peter, you lied."

"I fabricated a case…"

"That's called lying."

"What can I say, you're a bad influence."

"I'm not worth this."

Peter stopped in his tracks again. "Says who?"

Neal remained quiet, knowing the answer would only indict him as the offender. He found an old spot on the pavement that may have been gum spat out and forgotten long ago by some pedestrian too preoccupied to care. Something rolled in his stomach – two parts self recrimination and one part dire warning from the monster waking hungrily from slumber. He shuddered, and prayed silently that Peter did not see.

"I just don't want to see you get in trouble because of me," said Neal finally.

"Okay, you know how I feel about lying," Peter began.

"You hate it."

"Right! But I lied for you _because you're worth it_. You're my friend. Now, can we go?"

"I don't…I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything. Just kick this, and let's get back to work. You know…everyone misses you at the office. Most of them think you just walked off the job, but no one's touched your desk. Diana made it clear to everyone to keep their paws off your tie drawer."

"I appreciate that," Neal said, and laughed a bit – the first time Peter had heard him laugh since the nightmare began.

~WC~

They found the secreted door that would lead to Mozzie's hideaway. It opened to a dark, filthy and cluttered hallway and a service elevator with "Out of Service" "Danger" and "You could be killed!" signs taped to the wall.

"This has to be it," Neal said. "It's got Mozzie written all over it."

"So…" Peter looked around, straining to see in the darkness. "Where are the stairs?"

"We don't need the stairs," Neal said. He removed the thick double layer of electrical tape that covered the "up" button and pushed it. The elevator door slid open as slowly as chilled honey.

"How did you know?" Peter asked.

"It's _Mozzie_."

The old elevator lurched so hard, both men looked as if they expected the ancient cable to snap and the car to plummet to the ground. But after a sputtering, shuddering start, the ride evened out.

"Look, Neal, before we get there, I think you should know a few things... I know you wanted to keep things under wraps, but I thought…"

Before he could finish, the elevator lurched to a stop and the door rolled open.

Sunlight, reflecting off a cluster of surrounding skyscrapers outside, was overwhelming, making both men squint and cover their eyes from the white-hot glare.

Neal stepped in blindly, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the searing burst of sun light.

They heard a soft mechanical hum, and the full wall of floor-to-ceiling windows became softly opaque. The light in the room was tempered but the view remained as breathtaking as ever. Clear blue sky and the gleaming tops of Manhattan buildings standing like soldiers keeping guard over Thursday. No one would see then here, no one would know.

When Neal's eyes did finally adjust, he was surprised to find June standing before him, her lovely hands clasped in front of her as if she were awaiting the homecoming of her favorite son.

"Hello, Neal."

June wasn't alone. Standing beside her was Sara, dressed down in dark wash denims and a black top, but looking as elegant and beautiful as ever.

"Hi," was all Sara could muster herself to say before her hands flew to her face. Her eyes drank in the wraith-like visage of the man for whom she once considered crossing a few dangerous boundaries, and her carefully maintained resolve crumbled in ruin.

Jones stood just behind them, hands in his pockets. Beside him was Diana, smiling in a manner to which Neal was unaccustomed. Elizabeth was there, too, pursing her lips to control the urge to cry. Mozzie stood wringing his hands in his own inimitable, squirrelly way. It appeared to be taking tremendous restraint for all of them to remain silent and still.

No one was prepared for Neal's reaction, especially Peter.

His face first gave away his deep hurt and feelings of betrayal. He turned to Peter with such unanticipated, red-faced anger that the agent could only shake his head questioningly.

"What is this?" Neal demanded, teeth clenched and his voice barely audible. "You promised, Peter. Your swore!"

"Neal, listen to me…"

He would not. Neal glared at all of them again. The shame, the betrayal, was far more than his insubstantial level of trust could manage. He turned and headed back to the elevator, but it closed before he could get to it. He pounded the errant door with his fist, and stabbed the down button, once, twice, but the disobedient door would not respond.

"Neal!" Elizabeth stepped forward to reason with him.

"Let him go," Peter warned her, anger and disappointment deepening his voice. "It's his call."

Neal heard him. It had the desired effect. He turned around to snap at Peter, but was struck again by the sight of his friends all gathered on his behalf. He was trembling, shaking his head, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"I didn't want this. I didn't want any of you to know."

June stepped forward. Neal took a step back.

"Let us help you," she implored.

Something about her voice, and the very sight of her, calmed Neal just a touch. His hands relaxed. He closed his eyes. Tears squeezed through, dampening his thick lashes and running down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, kid," Peter spoke. "It's like I said, I can do this alone. Neither can you."

Neal still looked as if he would bolt at any second, but he did not turn back to the elevator.

"Neal, please…" said June. She took another step toward him. He didn't move back this time. He lost his resolve when he saw tears welling in her eyes, threatening to spill. She held her arms open to him, beckoning him to come, to trust, to stay.

Neal practically fell into her arms. June held him and whispered soft sweet words of welcome and support to him. He held her as tightly as his weak arms would allow. June rubbed his back comfortingly, then reached up to gently caress the back of his head. She pulled away only to cup his face in her hands and look into his eyes.

"I can't tell you how wonderful it is to see you," she said with misty eyed delight. "I have missed you so…"

Neal tried to return the sentiment, but words escaped him. He simply nodded and leaned into her touch until their foreheads met.

"June…" his voice cracked. "I'm so sorry…"

"Why, Neal? What have you to be sorry for?" She pulled away from him, but held both his hands firmly, the warmth of her skin passing onto Neal.

Quietly, just for the two of them, she said, "I'll let you in on a little secret. Shortly after my third anniversary, I discovered that my Byron was struggling with a nasty habit of his own. His situation was completely different from yours, in that he chose to play with heroin. But it was the heroin that played him. I threatened to move out. I never really intended to leave him, but I had to send him a strong message. Byron went cold turkey. It was awful, and not a night went by that I didn't fight with the thought of losing him to that nasty needle. But he kicked it, and I was at his side the entire time. I saw it all, so nothing that happens here can surprise me, Neal. I was there for Byron then. And now, I'm here for you."

"So am I," said Sara.

"All of us," said Diana. "Right, boss?" she said to Peter.

Peter nodded.

Jones stepped forward, a hand outstretched to Neal to shake. Shame threatened Neal and he hesitated, but Jones was insistent, taking another step toward him. Neal accepted his hand, and allowed the agent to pull him into a quick hug, slapping his back heartily.

"Good to see you, man," Jones said. He kept their contact brief, which Neal appreciated.

"You too," Neal confessed.

As he moved from Jones, Diana was there.

"Come here, Caffrey," she said, and put her arms around him. She whispered into his ear, "I'm going to get Hauser…for you. That's a promise." She pulled away. Her eyes cemented her oath to Neal. He merely nodded, knowing Diana's promise meant that Hauser was as good as caught.

Elizabeth was next. She didn't seem to know whether she should laugh or cry, so she did both. She hugged Caffrey quickly, and then rose on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek.

"Don't tell my husband. He's a very jealous man."

"My lips are sealed," Neal said, finally able to smile.

Lastly, Mozzie stepped forward. He said nothing, but threw his arms around his friend and hugged him fiercely. After nearly half a minute, Neal was still unable to pull away from Mozzie's hold.

"Moz…hey, come on. People will talk."

Mozzie disengaged quickly and stepped back, regarding Neal. "Mi casa Thursday is su casa Thursday, amigo. And by the way…you look terrible."

'"Thanks," Neal said, laughing a little uncomfortably. "A bath and a shave, and I'll be back to normal. Almost. I'm sorry a flew off the handle, guys. I'm glad you're here now. Really. I just didn't want anyone to know…"

"Well," said June, stepping back before Neal and taking his hand, "it's too late now. Besides, I have a bit of a surprise for you."

She held his arm tightly against her side and led him around the massive and astonishing space.

"So…what do you think of Thursday?"

It was the size of a warehouse, open and roomy with ultra high ceilings and wall sconces and Persian rugs scattered about, beautifully stained wood…and that view. Rather than rooms, there were areas – a living area with facing deep couches in dark chocolate and contrasting caramel; a dining area with a huge oak table and two royal chairs; a fully stocked kitchen area and a luxurious bathroom - the only enclosed area. It was all opaque glass with details from paintings by Charles Blackman, inspired by his fascination with Alice in Wonderland and her trip down the rabbit hole. Neal found that strangely appropriate.

But it was the sleeping area that made Neal want to weep.

"Recognize anything?" June asked with a twinkle in her eyes. "I had a few things brought from home."

"My bed…"

It was Neal's bed from June's house, made deliciously and stacked with a mountain of down pillows and several extra blankets. In a corner were folded stacks of clean sheets and plush Turkish towels. There were also other items that would help Neal feel more at home: his sketch pads, charcoals, his easel, several recently stretched canvases, a few of Neal's unfinished pieces, his brushes and every tube of paint he owned. There were also a few of his suits, new and vintage, dress shirts, vests and ties, pajama bottoms and white tank undershirts all hanging neatly in an elaborately carved and embellished wardrobe that rivaled anything C.S. Lewis had ever written about.

And three of Neal's hats were hanging on a wrought iron coat rack.

He had missed his hats. He went to the rack and chose one, looked at it longingly, but did not put it on.

"Well, what do you think?" June asked.

"This is all amazing…"

"You're family," said June. "And family takes care of their own."

~WC~

Now that the first hurdle was out of the way, Peter was breathing easier. All the participants in what Mozzie had dubbed "Operation Save Neal" sat in the living area while Peter reviewed the game plan for Neal's edification. It was an elegant scheme, well planned and dependent upon the discretion and commitment of everyone involved.

"Jones and Sara will take first watch tonight," Peter explained. "I'll relieve them at six a.m. Mozzie takes up the next watch, followed by Diana and me. We'll be tag-teaming from that point on, two on duty at all times, once the worst of the withdrawal symptoms kick in. We'll work out the rest of the schedule when we've got a better idea of what we're dealing with. Have I forgotten anything?"

Neal stood suddenly, a mask of panic.

"I can't…I can't do this…I can't put any of you through this…"

"Neal, calm down..."

Neal was holding his body rigidly, his shoulders high and tight. He was obviously in pain.

"I'm okay…I just need some air."

Diana stood, grabbing her leather jacket. "I'll walk with you."

"Me too," came Mozzie. "Who moved my scarf?"

"No! I just need a few minutes alone. Just let me take a walk. I'll be back in an hour."

"Not gonna happen," Peter said, standing, hands on his hips. Jones stood as well, backing up Peter's pronouncement. You're not alone again until this is over."

"So, what am I, a prisoner here? Why don't you just put the freakin' tracking anklet back on me, or toss me into Super Max! All I want is a minute alone!"

"Neal…"

"BACK OFF!" Neal barked in a violent tone none of them had ever heard before.

It was Elizabeth's turn to try to sooth the beast in Neal. She stood slowly, offering no threat.

"Would we do that to you, Neal? Do you really think we would keep you here against your will, or do anything to harm you?"

Neal seemed to back down a bit, calmed his breath, and dropped his defensive stance. "Sorry," he said. "Just starting to feel a little rough around the edges, guys."

"I'm sure that putting it mildly," said Peter. "Look…why don't you go concentrate on getting cleaned up, hm? Maybe that'll help take some of the edge off."

"Yeah," said Jones. "That sounds like a good idea. I'll give you a hand."

"I don't need a hand. I'm not completely helpless," Neal snapped.

"No, but Peter said you're not to be left alone for a minute until this is over," the agent said. "That's non-negotiable."

"Fine," said Neal as he headed off to the bathroom. "But I warn you, I tend to break into song in the shower."

"Just don't sing off key, or I'll have to shoot you."

When Jones and Neal were gone, Peter took a deep, nervous breath. "What the hell are we doing, El?"

Elizabeth was at his side in a second, rubbing her husband's knotted shoulders. "You're saving your friend's life."

"Did you see the look on his face when I told him he couldn't leave? I never heard speak like that before."

Sara stood up, as if in Neal's defense. "It's the drug talking. Reminds me of my father. He drank a little. Sometimes he said things he didn't mean. Sometimes he did mean them but he would never say them sober. Neal's going to be pretty unpredictable. I guess we're all going to need soft hearts and tough skins. I'm going to make something for us all to eat."

Sara headed for the kitchen area. Peter noted the slump in her usually upright shoulders, and made a mental note to check in with her, make sure she was up to the job. He knew the days ahead were going to be brutal.

Peter pulled his wife to him and put his arms around her. "You and I are going to have a nice, quiet dinner, any restaurant you choose, and we are going to spend a quiet evening at home, before all the craziness and chaos kicks in."

"That sounds wonderful," she said, and kissed her husband. "Let me get my jacket and we can head out."

She would not pull away from Peter just yet. "You okay?"

"Yes!" he said quickly, smiling, more for her than from the heart. "What if I'm wrong? What if Neal…dies?"

"We won't let that happen."

~WC~

Sara was searching through the cabinets and the freezer, taking inventory of all the food and supplies June and Elizabeth had mindfully stocked the place with. June stood nearby, slipping on her wrap, preparing to leave and caught sight of Sara removing a whole, rotisserie baked chicken from the refrigerator.

"You know, he's not going to want to eat much."

Sara jumped a little, almost dropping the chicken. "He still has to eat. I did my research. He'll only be able to keep a few simple things down. Chicken's simple, isn't it?"

"Just ask him."

"I'm afraid he'll bite my head off."

"And it if he does…you bite him back."

The women laughed, Sara only a little. "I don't think I can handle this, June. I thought I could… We broke up. I broke it off. Maybe he still resents me."

"Neal needs every single one of us. You stand your ground, Sara. Give your heart, no matter how it comes back to you. But if you need to back away, don't be ashamed. This isn't about us. It's about Neal."

"Right…right. So…no chicken."

"You and Jones can eat it. My suggestion, start with the soup for Neal. There must be two or three dozen cans of the stuff up there. If he wants chicken, give him chicken. Whatever he chooses, or doesn't choose, don't take it personally. I'm going home now. Cindy's holding dinner for me. You make sure you do your shift, and you go home, and treat yourself to something wonderful…a luxurious bath, your favorite movie. And don't take Neal's addiction home with you. Promise?"

"I promise."

Sara hugged June warmly and walked her to the elevator.

~WC~

Neal wiped steamy mist from the bathroom mirror and confronted his freshly scrubbed reflection. His bones were prominent, but he felt a small sense of hope that he would regain his lost weight and muscle as soon as the monster was beaten into submission and released its grasp. He saw Jones' reflection over his shoulder and felt bad for the agent.

"Sorry you got the crappy detail," said Neal.

"I've had worse."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Have you smelled the surveillance van lately?"

Neal sprayed thick shaving crème into his hand and slathered it onto his face. He found the old fashioned double edge disposable razor in the medicine cabinet and checked its sharpness with the tip of his thumb. Instantly he was thrown back in time, back in prison, planning his escape, shaving his strategically grown beard to alter his appearance just enough to allow him to walk out unrecognized by the guards.

"You okay?" asked Jones.

"Yeah." Neal brought the razor to his face, fighting to keep his hand from trembling as he scraped away weeks of scraggly, wiry growth and watched it plop into the sink.

When he finished, he regarded his thinning face. He'd hidden behind the beard so long, he had almost forgotten what he looked like. Almost.

"All done," said Neal, rinsing and returning the razor to the cabinet and checking the tautness of the white towel wrapped around his waist.

"Great," said Jones. "Let's get you some clothes."

Jones exited first. Neal followed and felt a pang of disappointment.

"Where did everybody go?"

"People got things to do. What do you want, pants or pajamas?"

"Pants, and I can do this fine by myself."

Jones raised his hands in surrender and stepped aside. Before Neal could decide what to wear, both men turned to find Sara standing nearby, a stainless steel ladle in hand. She nearly gasped when she saw his thin frame, the prominent rib bones pushing through his paled skin. Her eyes dropped to stare at the ladle.

"Dinner," she said, and quickly turned to go back to the kitchen.

"Sara!"

She stopped, but didn't turn around.

"Jones," said Neal, "would you give us a moment."

Jones nodded and headed for the kitchen.

Neal and Sara stood silently, letting their eyes fall on everything but each other.

"I'm sorry you had to find out this way," he said in a near whisper.

"There's no good way to find out, is there, Neal?"

"I guess not. You okay?"

"I'm great. Come eat."

"Wait..."

Sara began to turn, to look at him.

"No…don't…don't look at me. I never wanted you to see me this way. After tonight, I want you to promise you won't come back."

She turned, despite his mumbled preference, despite his shame.

"No! I want to help."

"I know you do."

"Then why are you sending me away?"

"I'm not sending you away. I don't want to see you again, until I've kicked this."

"What if I come anyway? Are you going to kick me out?"

"Sara…"

"Listen, Caffrey. I'm a grown woman, I can handle this."

"I can't. Promise me, you'll wait until I'm better. Then come see me. You want to help me? This is how."

"Why?"

"Just, do it, okay?"

She thought she could hear the sound of her own heart breaking.

"You're soup's getting cold."

She turned to head back for the kitchen yet again, but whipped back around when she heard Neal suddenly gasp.

She saw him bent over, holding his midsection, his body seizing, his face contorted in a pain she hoped she would never experience firsthand.

"What is it? Neal…!"

She reached him just as he began cry out in agony.

"Sick…" was all she heard, before it all became retching and moaning.

"Jones!" she called. "It's Neal! Something's wrong!"

End of chapter 6. Hope you're sufficiently…hooked. Sorry, no pun initially intended. Please review or message me with your thoughts. Thanks for over 8,000 hits so far.


	7. Chapter 7

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 7

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to the mighty mighty Jeff Eastin.

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

TWO MONTHS AGO

He was sitting on the terrace of a sumptuously appointed suite at Chateau Eza, overlooking the magnificent Mediterranean. He sipped a most perfect espresso and nibbled on warm bread, soft cheese and strawberries, while marveling at the incomparable beauty of the Cote D'Azur. How he longed for this place to remain his home forever.

He heard the sound of movement inside the room and remembered he was not alone. She would be emerging fresh from the shower, skin still warm with beads of moisture being happily absorbed in a soft oversized robe made of the most exquisite fibers. Her hair would still be damp and wavy against her shoulders, smelling of lilacs or roses or warm vanilla sugar. She would join him any moment, and they would share in the beauty of this magnificent view.

This was going to be his immediate future: He was going to tell her, say the words he had been meaning to say for so long. He was going to hold her hand, taste the sweet-tart of strawberries still lingering on her lips as they kissed, and tell her what his heart was moving him to say. And she would smile, he knew. She would smile and her eyes would sparkle and dance and her elegant reserve would be betrayed by a girlish giggle.

From somewhere, a suite just below them perhaps, the sound of music would drift from a window to enhance their moment. It would be _Clair de Lune_. He would stand, hold out a hand, and she would take his hand and allow herself to melt fully into his embrace. And they would dance, moving so slightly that it would appear to the naked eye that they were not moving at all. But they would dance this way until the end of the song, with the calm, salty sea as their only witness. They would never be closer, and no time would ever be as perfect as this. Neal Caffrey would finally know what it meant to be truly, unequivocally, irrevocably happy.

And then Kate would…

…or was it Sara?

"Wait…"

Wasn't it was always Kate and he who spoke of the Cote D'Azur?

But it was Sara's eyes, Sara's smile, and Sara's arms around him.

"Wait…" he said again, confusion tearing at his heart, clouding his brain, torturing his psyche. "Where am I? When am I? Sara…Kate…?"

Sara/Kate speaks. "Kate's gone, Neal. She's dead."

Kate/Sara speaks. "I'm here, right here in your arms. We can be like this forever."

Sara/Kate begins to cry.

"Why are you crying?"

"We didn't earn this," says Sara/Kate, "And I won't cross any line I can't come back from."

"I would never ask you to."

Then the music stops.

And Neal is suddenly, wretchedly, crushingly alone.

~WC~

Neal awoke with a harsh gasp that damaged his throat like steel wool to soft flesh. It graduated into a coughing spell that made his gut clench and ache. He was cold, chilled to the bone, even though the evening air was mild and humid on his sweat-slicked skin. The left side of his head throbbed; he touched it and felt something warm and wet. Blood decorated the tips of his fingers. He realized he was lying on the hard pavement, surrounded by darkness and dozens of overstuffed trash bags. The fetid smell of garbage was suddenly overwhelming as the rest of his senses gradually began to resume function.

Gagging from the stench, Neal fought to rise on wobbly legs, his head spinning. He felt strangely detached, as if only part of him were present and aware of what was happening to him, while the absent part of him watched from some faraway place, unable to help, unable to participate. He closed his eyes to listen, to see if he could identify his whereabouts by the ambient sounds. There was traffic – cars honking, engines revving and shifting gears as they passed by. There were voices – a few, but nothing strikingly familiar, nothing out of the ordinary. There was music – a low, thumping baseline keeping a repetitive dance club beat. He quickly deduced that he was somewhere along the main drag of the city's night life. Where there was night life, there was bound to be people who could help him.

As he made his way to the lip of the alley, the memory of how he came to be there came roaring back.

He had taken the shot Hauser had deviously left on the table. Not much mattered to Neal after that. He had a vague recollection of the Big Man, an indeterminate amount of time later, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and lifting him from the floor of Hauser's suite. He then dragged Neal's dead weight into the elevator and threw him against the wall. Neal's strength, as well as the urge to defend himself both tragically deserted him. He could not find the power to fight or rebuff the Big Man as he hauled Neal from the elevator and pitched him into the back of a black sedan. Neal slammed head-first into the leather seat. Hauser was there suddenly, peering inside the vehicle, smiling triumphantly.

"Are we going somewhere?" Neal managed to ask.

"I am releasing you. Go home, if you like. As a matter of fact…"

Hauser reached into a pocket and pulled out a few coins and tossed them at Neal.

"Why don't you give the FBI a call and see if they'll come get you. I'm sure Agent Burke will be quite happy to see you after such a long absence. Especially in your condition."

Hauser slammed the door shut and climbed into the front seat. The vehicle was moving, lurching along a street Neal could not see – it was night, and the windows were regrettably darkly tinted.

He heard Hauser talking in quiet tones, making plans. Neal kept his eyes shut, feigning unconsciousness, and listened as much as he could. Most of the conversation was lost on him. But a few of the more specific facts he was happily able to grasp; and he hoped he could retain and recall this information later.

"As soon as we have disposed of Caffrey, Aldo, I'll need to get to the airstrip by the Hudson."

So…the Big Man had a name – Aldo.

"I'll be taking the jet. It won't be returning. Once we have landed, we will no longer be in communication, and our arrangement will end when you finish with the penthouse. Your money will be transferred into your bank account at midnight. Enjoy it."

"I plan to," said Aldo.

"Torch the penthouse. Make sure there is nothing left. Then leave New York City. I don't care where you go, just don't ever come back."

"There's an island with my name on it somewhere. What about your wife?"

"There is no time. It's probably for the best. Sentimentality can be a very dangerous thing. I cannot afford that."

"Mr. Hauser, if I may ask…why go through all this – doping Caffrey – and not stick around to see the pay off? Why not just put a bullet in him and leave him on Burke's doorstep?"

"A bullet is quick. There's a certain…mercy inherent in the delivery of such a swift death. Most find it cold and inhumane, but to me, it's like ripping off a bandage. Give a man a lingering, protracted death, prolong his suffering, lengthen the hours of his darkness, and you not only kill the man, but you break him. You _end_ him long before death occurs. My son was broken. His life ended long before the fatal dose. Caffrey and Burke deserve nothing less."

Neither Hauser nor Aldo the Big Man spoke for the remainder of the drive.

Time seemed irrelevant and flowed oddly to Neal. It could have been hours or mere minutes later when the luxury car stopped and Aldo pulled Neal from the back seat.

"Thanks for the lift," Neal said facetiously.

Big Aldo responded by throwing Neal hard to the ground, amidst the trash. He passed out – again time was indefinable – and he lay there until he woke from an odd dream about dancing on a terrace somewhere in the Cote D'Azur.

~WC~

He walked as if in a dream, somewhere near Columbus Circle. He was shoeless, filthy, and smelling to high heaven. Neal had never found himself so close to bottom before; it unnerved him. He shivered, not so much from the leeching cold in his bones, but because of the fear that had wound its way through his gut. His thoughts were addled from the last remnants of the drug in his system, but also by his desperately injured spirit. He knew it would be difficult, coming back from this, and no con in the world could make this seemingly implausible situation less impossible to explain or deal with. Who would ever believe him?

He buttoned his shirt and tucked it as best he could. There wasn't much he could do to improve his battered and impoverished appearance. People avoided him, jay-walked into oncoming traffic and skirted to the edge of the sidewalk just to keep from making contact with him.

"Excuse me…may I use your cell phone?" he asked. "It's an emergency…"

Eyes dropped, refusing to connect with his.

"I need to call the FBI…"

People looked at him as if he were out of his mind. They nearly tripped over their own feet to steer clear of him.

"Could you help me…please?"

Some spat curses at him.

"I need your help. If you could just…"

At first he was offended, deeply wounded and driven to the point of despair. But soon he became morbidly amused and darkly fascinated by his affect on his fellow pedestrians. It occurred to him that in his present condition he could expect little or no help from anyone. He was dejectedly, miserably, on his own.

Until he remembered Mozzie.

How could he have neglected to think of Mozzie? The little guy must have been worried sick at Neal disappearance. Surely he had put the word out on the street; surely he was, even now, searching all of Neal's old haunts, perhaps even pestering Peter with tips on possible whereabouts. A darker thought lingered in his mind…_why haven't they found me by now_? Darker still: _Where was Peter_?

His vigor somewhat renewed, Neal battled to clear his mind and focus in on the problem at hand and not on the bleak visions and thoughts of abandonment. Where would Mozzie be right now? Come to think of it, what was now? How much time had actually transpired since this nightmare began?

He stopped to stare at his pale, haggard image in a storefront window. The man who stared back at him seemed as almost a stranger. He looked…what was the term? Oh yes….

Strung out.

The thought stunned him, made him shudder. Neal reached out to touch the glass, just to make sure that the reflected image moved as he did.

"Hey, buddy…you, in the window!"

Neal turned to find two of New York's finest staring him down. One of the officers, stepping out of the police unit, looked as if he were former linebacker for the Giants. All muscle, no mercy. The other had bright red hair under his tight-fitting cap.

"Evening, Officers," Neal said, approaching with caution disguised as humility.

"You weren't thinkin' about breakin' that window glass and snatching somethin', were you?"

"Not at all," Neal said, taking one slight step back. "I need your help."

Both cops looked at each other. "He needs our help," Red said to Muscles. "What can we do for you?"

Neal took another stepped back.

"Don't run, or my partner here will have to Tase ya."

"That won't be necessary, gentlemen," said Neal.

Red laughed. "Oh…'that won't be necessary,' he says. We'll tell you what's necessary. Up against the wall."

"What? Why?"

"'Cause you're sweatin' and shakin' like cat in a roomful of rockin' chairs. That can only mean one thing. You're a junkie and you're lookin' for a fix. Well, you ain't getting' any tonight, buddy."

"Look, officers, I'm not asking for trouble. Just a little help. I need to contact Agent Peter Burke of the FBI."

"Oh, the FBI?" Muscles laughed. "Yous got important business with the FBI, do ya?"

"I'm a C.I. for the Bureau. My name is Neal Caffrey. You can check that out easily with a simple phone call."

"C.I.? What's that stand for?"

Neal didn't want to say anything. Something in the back of his mind told him that, regardless of what he said, this wasn't going to end well.

"Hey, I asked you a question, buddy," Muscles said threateningly.

"Criminal Investigator."

Muscles laughed. "Ain't that something! We got ourselves a 'criminal investigator' here."

Red laughed, too. "Sure looks like a criminal to me. Let me ask you something, Mr. FBI Criminal Investigator. Don't federal agents usually wear shoes in pursuit of their duty, or is footwear optional these days?"

"I can explain my lack of footwear."

Both officers, Neal contemplated, appeared to be working from the same cruel playbook. Both crossed their arms, both smirked and waited for Neal to enlighten them.

"I was kidnapped…" Neal said, hoping they would listen to the entire story before rushing to judgment. Couldn't they see his desperation?

"I was kidnapped by a man named Linus Hauser. He forced drugs into me..."

"This story keeps getting better 'n better. Okay, Mr. FBI Informant on drugs, why don't we take a little trip to headquarters and sort all this out."

"You're arresting me?"

"We just wanna talk."

Neal attempted to back up again but found himself flush against the cool plate glass. He was trapped.

"I know all this sounds crazy…"

"Y'think?" Red quipped.

"…but I haven't done anything wrong," Neal said pleadingly. "I'm just trying to get to Peter Burke. Agent Peter Burke! He'll vouch for me, I swear!"

"You can call him from the station. I'll even dial the number for you. So…You're not gonna make this hard for us, are ya?"

Red made a move for his TASER.

Neal considered running, but realized all too soon that the odds were hopelessly against him. The officers were faster, stronger, armed and _sober_. Neal recognized that he was teetering dangerously on the verge of withdrawal. He'd dodge bullets before, but never when his body was working so formidably against him.

Before he could attempt his doomed-to-failure escape, the strident, mechanized voice of the dispatcher interrupted the moment.

"All units, all units…"

Muscles and Red actually looked disappointed.

"This must be your lucky night, junkie," said Muscles. "Go on, get lost. And I better not see yous around here again!"

Neal wasted no time, accept to look briefly over his shoulders to see both cops climbing into the squad car and pulling off, sirens blaring, lights flashing. He thanked God silently and kept running as hard as his weak and wobbling legs would carry him. His immediate concern was distance, not so much direction.

He was racing across the street when the first severe pang of withdrawal bashed him in the gut, making him feel as if his insides were being torn asunder. Neal practically collapsed before an on-coming car. The indignant driver saw no logic in braking for some raggedy transient on the street. Neal threw up a hand, as if to stop the car by sheer force of will. The rebellious driver swerved to the left of him and kept going, blowing his horn accusingly as he drove away, leaving Neal panting and shaking with fear.

Neal continued on, his intention set on searching every possible place Mozzie might visit until he found him, before his body betrayed him completely. If push came to shove, Neal would steal a cell phone to call Moz, lift a wallet for cash….

His muscles were beginning to ache down to his bones. He was freezing even as he was drenched in sweat, his clothing saturated and heavy. His body had begun to respond to the monster's voracious hunger.

It wanted to feed.

Neal found another alley and quickly ducked into it to vomit out of sight and sound of others. Once the piddling amount in his stomach and other mysterious fluids had cleared, he leaned against the wall, out of breath. He lost his balance and fell onto his backside. He sat there, trembling, aching and cramping…

And this, he knew, was only the beginning.

"You need something?"

Neal looked up quickly, frightened by the gravelly voice that interrupted his suffering.

"What? No!" Neal said quickly and fought his way back to his feet. He teetered and held onto a wall as the ground seemed to shift and move under him. He regarded the thin blond man who stood before him with a good dose of fear and mistrust. After all, he had seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Y'sure about that?"

"Yeah. I'm sure."

Neal tried to leave, but the thin blond man would not step aside, would not yet allow him passage.

"Call me Blondie."

"Blondie...? Deborah Harry or Dirty Harry?"

"Aw, Clint Eastwood all the way, man. You look like you could use something."

Neal attempted to get past the man again, but failed.

"First hit's free," Blondie tempted.

"What?"

"First hit's on me. Everything after that, standard rates apply."

Neal considered Blondie's generous yet malevolent offer. He could end the pain, or ride it through until it went away.

Another aching wave. Neal let slip a convulsive groan. Yet another physical betrayal.

"Not interested," he said in a breathless whisper.

Blondie held up a small clear packet of dirty white powder.

Neal looked at it, eyes wide, holding his breath.

"No," he said. "I shouldn't….I shouldn't want this."

"Nobody's twisting your arm, man." He dropped the stuff back into a pocket. "I'm just trying to help."

Blondie laughed and turned to walk away.

"Wait!" cried Neal, loathing himself for this weakness. "Wait…"

Blondie stopped, but didn't turn around. "What's your name?"

"Nick. Call me Nick."

Blondie pulled the packet from his pocket and tossed it carelessly over his shoulder.

Neal stared at the packet on the ground, holding his breath while a battle waged within him.

He didn't want to.

God knew Neal didn't want to.

But the pain gave him no choice.

Neal picked up the packet and stared at it sitting in the palm of his filthy hand. Just this one last time, he promised himself. To clear his head, to stave off the agony to come. This, surely, would be the last time. Wouldn't it? He would find the strength later to say no.

"I don't have…" His voice trailed off apprehensively. How do you ask a stranger for a hypodermic needle?

"Fixin's?" Blondie laughed maliciously. "I got everything you need. Let's find a cooler spot to do this. What do ya say, Nick?"

Neal nodded and followed, fighting not to acknowledge the dreaded truth – that his life was becoming enthralled to the monster, and that he had begun the sad and repellent process of dying inside.

~WC~

_Hold me now _

_I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking_

_Maybe six feet ain't so far down…_

"Six Feet from the Edge" by Creed

THE PRESENT

"Neal…"

Sara had stood with an ear to the bathroom door for more than ten minutes, listening to the hellish sounds of his suffering. Her head hurt, but more, her heart hurt as she listened. She trembled and cried mutely, unable to do anything to ease or share in his agony. She had never heard such retching before, nor had she ever heard Neal cry.

Brave Agent Jones was with him, no doubt holding Neal's shoulders while his sickness raged, speaking to him in awkward gentle words and tones to encourage rather than to intimidate, as was his stronger suit. Silent moments were fleeting and deceptive; just when she thought the worst was over, it would all begin again. How much more could a man bear?

Sara jumped at the sound of the elevator activating and went quickly to receive or dispatch whoever was visiting unannounced. When the door slid open she was relieved to find Mozzie standing there, but also concerned to see that he was not alone.

The stranger had thick white hair, yet his face was unlined and mildly tanned. He was a head and a half taller than Mozzie, and broad across his shoulders. He wore a flamboyant Hawaiian shirt inside a dark suit that looked as if he had paid good money for it a few years back. And he carried a telltale physician's black bag that helped put Sara, for the moment, at ease.

"I'm Shamus," said the white haired man. "Where's the patient?"

"In the bathroom."

Before she could say more, the chilling sound of Neal's ordeal reached them through the walls. Sara could have sworn she saw Mozzie pale by a shade or two. But Shamus remained clinically unmoved by the sound as he stepped into the room. He gave cavernous Thursday a look, nodded, then made a bee-line to Neal's bed.

"When he's finished, I'll need some privacy with the patient to do a quick workup."

~WC~

Neal sat on the bed, fighting the urge to fidget while Shamus placed the cold end of the stethoscope on his bare chest.

"Inhale…"

Neal did, fighting the shivering cold that was plaguing him.

"Exhale."

Neal did. And looked up at Shamus with watery, bloodshot eyes.

Shamus silently conducted the rest of his examination, blood pressure, reflexes, taking blood, checking old injection sights, asking a few terse questions here and there. Once done with his ministrations, he gingerly wrapped a warm blanket around Neal's shoulders, and sat next to him on the bed.

"How are you feeling right now?" Shamus asked.

"Same as an hour ago. Like I've got the world's worse flu, and it's not done yet."

"Muscle and bone aches are pretty standard. It will get worse before it gets better."

"Yeah," said Neal dejectedly. "I read about it. Cold and hot, vomiting, diarrhea."

"Any involuntary movements?"

"Akathisia? No. Not yet anyway. What else can I expect?"

"I'm not going to lie to you, Neal," the unofficial doctor said. "You've got a rough patch of road ahead of you. This is going to be the hardest thing you ever dealt with. The normal course of treatment would be hospitalization and the administering of a few meds to help reverse some the effects of the heroin in your system. I'll see what I can do about getting a few meds, but I can't promise you."

"What happens without the meds?"

Shamus let out a tense breath. "You're going to wish you were high. Or dead."

Neal felt the blood rush from his face.

Shamus stood and began packing his doctoring tools.

"Best I can tell you for now…keep anti-diarrhea medicine on hand…when the muscle aches get worse, hot baths will help a little. Eat when you can. Keep a plastic bag within reach. And, for the record, I think you should get off your high horse and put yourself in the hospital or a program. You don't have to go through this without help."

"I have help. My friends…"

"You're lucky, you know, to have all this support. But it may not be enough. If you insist on going through with this, I can't stop you. But it's going to be hell. Not just for you. If they're still your friends when this is over… You're going to want to use, and if it means taking out one of your friends..."

"I wouldn't hurt them."

"Yes you will. I've seen it. I'm going to have a chat with your friends. Any objection?"

Neal shook his head. He was fixated on the fear that he might hurt someone…Jones, Peter…Sara…just to feed the monster. Neal lay back and stared at the ceiling, fighting the untenable fear rising in him.

~WC~

Jones, Mozzie and Sara convened with Shamus at the dining table.

"Fasten your seatbelts," Shamus said. "The next few days are going to be the making of you. Your friend may have initially been forced into this addiction, but make no mistake, he is an addict now, and therefore subject to all the pain, deceit, and mental anguish any addict can cause or experience. He needs to be accompanied at all times; at no point is he to be alone. If you sleep, and he makes it to that elevator he's gone, and he's going to use.

"Check his clothes - whatever he came here with - for drugs. Don't just check the pockets. Check the lining, hems, cuffs, everything. Here's a list of symptoms to be on the lookout for…"

Shamus pulled a folded piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket. Mozzie accepted it, and held it so that Jones and Sara could read it with him. They were overwhelmed by all the torturous possibilities.

"If at any time he stops breathing or complains of anything not on that list, you better have 911 on speed dial. And whatever you do, don't mention my name."

"Goes without saying," Mozzie said, eyes still focused on the list.

"I'll call you every four to six hours or so, just to check in. If you need me…"

From another pocket he handed Mozzie a black burner phone.

"Only if you need me. You get one call, then get rid of it. Understood?"

"We got you," said Jones. "Only if Neal goes south."

"He should be over the worst of it in about a week. But it still won't be over."

"What do you mean?" asked Sara.

"I'm talking about addiction. Sober or not, he's going to want to use again. He's going to need some serious therapy. Especially considering how this all come to be. I have a friend…she'll be in contact with you in a couple days."

"Who is she?" Sara asked.

"One of the best therapists in New York City. A former patient of mine who understands Neal's situation first hand. You may have heard of her. Actually, you may have heard her. Mornings, drive time, 99 FM.

"Doctor Leslie?" Mozzie said, a bit too loudly, a bit too excitedly. "You know Doctor Leslie?"

"Yeah, and in a few days, you'll know her too. Now, are there any questions before I hit the road?"

~WC~

_It's been a while since I could hold my head up high_

_It's been a while since I first saw you_

_It's been a while since I could stand on my own two feet again_

_It's been a while since I could call you_

"_It's Been A While" _by Staind

Neal was curled on his side under the covers trying to rest. He had taken an over-the-counter sleep aid, at Shamus's recommendation, and it was working marginally well at making him drowsy. He had eaten a small bowl of warm chicken soup and drank a bit of sweet herbal tea that Sara had made for him. All he could think about was what lay ahead. He had never felt such palpable fear before.

"Neal…" Sara's voice came softly, checking to see if he were awake or asleep.

Neal moved just a bit to look at her, big blue eyes wide while the rest of his face remained hidden under the covers.

"I'm sorry, Neal. Did I wake you?"

"No."

"How are you feeling?"

"Pretty rough. Guess you decided to stick around. I'm glad you did."

She smiled through tears.

"Me, too."

She boldly moved forward and sat on the bed. He moved to accommodate her, but not too far. He was strengthened by her warmth and her presence, and surprised that she would even want to be close to him, after everything he had put her through.

"I feel so…useless…" she said.

He uncovered his head and sat up weakly.

"What are you talking about? Why?"

"Because," she began, then took a moment to consider her words. "It just sucks. What you need is a nurse, or a doctor, or someone with medical experience. You don't need an insurance investigator who can barely boil water."

He reached out from under the covers and took her hand.

"There's more to Sara Ellis than her dazzling Sterling Bosch reputation. You're kind; you're loyal to a fault. And you're the most beautiful woman…"

"…in this room?" she said, a mischievous twinkling in her eyes.

"In my world."

She was driven to silence for a beat.

"Listen…my shift is almost up. Peter should be here any minute."

"I wish you could stay," Neal said. "You smell a lot nicer than Peter."

She giggled. And then she became very serious. "You really gave me a scare today."

"I'm sorry."

"Actually, I've been afraid for you for such a long time, long before you disappeared. I'm so glad you're back. And I'm here for you. But I want you to understand…things haven't…changed. Not for us."

Neal let go of her hand and lay his head back on his pillow. "I know that," he lied. He'd hoped.

"I just wanted to be clear. No expectations. No false hopes."

Neal let his eyes stray away, to the floor to ceiling window. It was dark now, and the lights of the tall buildings were dazzling.

"I'll be back day after tomorrow," said Sara.

"You may not want to come back. Things may be a little…out of control. And the last thing I want to do is hurt you."

"I can deal with anything you throw at me, Caffrey."

She stood, but she was far from ready to leave.

"You rest, okay?"

And she walked away.

This was going to be a very long, excruciating week, Neal thought. He began to panic, feel closed in. He wasn't ready for this. He needed a way out. He sat up, got up and sauntered toward the bathroom. As expected, Jones intercepted him at the door. He gave Jones a quickly look, and noted the agent's service weapon at his side. It would be nothing to feign a stumble and fall against Jones, and lift the gun from the holster…

End of chapter 7.

Thanks for your continued reading. I hope you'll review.


	8. Chapter 8

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 8

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to the Man, Jeff Eastin.

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

From chapter 7:

_He began to panic, feel closed in. He wasn't ready for this. He needed a way out. He sat up, got up and sauntered toward the bathroom. As expected, Jones intercepted him at the door. He gave Jones a quick look, and noted the agent's service weapon at his side. It would be nothing to feign a stumble and fall against Jones, and lift the gun from the holster…_

Chapter 8

Shamus's voice was ringing in Neal's foggy head like a klaxon. _"You're going to want to use, and if it means taking out one of your friends…"_

"_I wouldn't hurt them."_

"_Yes you will. I've seen it…."_

The palm of his right hand itched as he anticipated the smooth, cool feel of the unfriendly gun slipping into his grip. His body twitched uncontrollably – once, twice – as he stopped before Agent Jones. Could this man who had become his friend see the dark strategy written on Neal's face? It was more than possible that he, this tested and seasoned lawman, had already foreseen Neal's desperate maneuver and cultivated a tactic to thwart it. Success for Neal would mean that Jones would not even know what had happened until he pointed Jones' own gun at him. Failure would mean a quick and painful beat down, handcuffs, harsh words, and humiliation. Maybe even a bullet. _A mercy,_ Neal thought. Eventually, they would all see his unworthiness, his corruption, his deceit, and they would abandon him. Leave him alone to suffer, die and rot.

_Forgotten, _the monster roared inside his head.

Neal had to free himself before this miserable portent could play itself out.

"_I wouldn't hurt them…"_

"_Yes you will…"_

Neal closed his eyes tightly. Could he truly do this and not hurt them? Could he truly point a gun at Jones, or Sara, or Mozzie? What would they think of him? And what would Peter do to him when he eventually caught up with him? Because Peter would surely catch Neal again.

"Hey," he said anemically to Jones. He was shivering and trying to hide it. Trying to smile that charming, prepossessing smile that warmed people to him and left them naïve and vulnerable to his schemes.

"What's up, Neal?" Jones asked.

Neal had no true intention of hurting Jones or anyone else. He wouldn't even put his finger on the trigger, he promised himself. He couldn't risk it; his hands were too shaky and the monster - so unpredictable - might make him flinch, or miscalculate. His tortured mind could not handle the thought of such tragedy.

"You okay, Caffrey?" asked Jones. "You look a little weird. You should go back and lie down."

Jones was suspicious, Neal could see it. Better to make his move now, he thought. Another moment's hesitation would mean failure and ruin. Jones was all that stood between him and the elevator that lead to freedom from more pain.

Neal did not have to fake his stumble.

He began convulsing.

He had never been so wholly out of control before. Every part of his physical being was moving to its own wrenching, jerking, staccato rhythm. His head flew back hard and his body followed. He fell backwards onto the floor like a heavy stone. The back of his head slammed on the wood finished floor. Neal could do nothing but go with what his body was doing. It was no longer his own.

The monster shook him ruthlessly, relentlessly. He went rigid, thick veins bulging in his distended neck and arms, fingers curled tightly like claws, teeth clenched so hard that he could hear them screeching and grinding together and imagined they were turning to powder. It was if his body was experiencing one hideous Charlie Horse in every joint and muscle at once. He wanted to cry out, but the expletives in his head remained trapped and unable to find their way to his mouth. Spittle foamed and shot between his tensely curled lips.

Hands were on him, holding him down, holding him still. Were they doing this to help him or harm him? Neal was terrified, wanted desperately to scream, but he could not.

Slowly the seizure began to loosen its grip on Neal, and he gradually resumed control over the muscles of his extremities, just enough to unclench his fists, cease kicking, and breathe. But his body felt as if he had been beaten unyieldingly, mercilessly. The exhaustion of the episode was overwhelming.

He was bombarded by two emotions as he came to awareness and clarity: fear and embarrassment. Fear, because he had never experienced such an alarming and frenzied hell as this before. Embarrassment, because, as predicted and expected from his personal research into the body's violent and adverse reactions to withdrawal, he had involuntarily soiled himself. What little soup he had managed to put down earlier also now adorned the floor.

The shame was overwhelming, shattering.

He was a useless, pitiable mess, he told himself. He had thought his greatest low, his deepest bottom, had long ago been reached. This was on a different scale altogether.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered through tears. "I'm so sorry…"

"Ssshhhh…"

It was Sara, smoothing back his sweat-soaked hair, her lips so close to his ear he could hear and feel every warm, hitching breath as she fought not to cry.

"I'm sorry…sorry…"

Neal tried to rise, but the muscle cramps persisted, ramping up their torturous assault. Neal cried out, eyes wide and bloodshot and strangely unfocussed.

"Easy, Neal…"

That was Jones.

"Just be still…let us help you."

Mozzie. Why were they still there? Did they not see? Did they not know? Were they not sickened and appalled by him?

"Get some towels," he vaguely heard Jones say. "And some hot water."

The exhaustion was more than Neal could handle. He was grateful to know that there was at least one temporary escape at hand: He felt himself giving into the warm, compassionate blanket of unconsciousness.

~WC~

"Did I miss anything?"

Peter was in an oddly upbeat mood when he arrived Thursday. It was shortly past midnight, and he had enjoyed a lovely, quiet, intimate evening with Elizabeth. While the specter of Neal's ordeal and the fight to come cast a pall over everything, they were nevertheless able to enjoy a good meal and the pleasure of one another's company. A pretty remarkable matter, Peter thought, considering they'd been married more than a decade. The sparks were still there, and he counted himself a lucky man, one of the few.

He was worried, however; so too was Elizabeth. They mutually agreed that Peter would begin his shift early, and relieve Sara and Jones. Diana had agreed as well.

His upbeat mood dissipated the moment he saw the grim faces of his friends staring back at him as he stepped off the elevator. A wave of anxiety and anguish washed over him.

"Is he…?"

"No," said Sara, crossing her arms. "Neal had a seizure. He gave us all quite a scare. He's resting now. As much as he can, anyway."

Peter crossed the room quickly to Neal's bed. He noted sorrowfully how the curled lump under the heavy blank was shivering, shaking, groaning.

"Neal…"

No response.

"Neal?"

He pulled back the covers for a look.

"So it begins," Peter said, and replaced the blanket gently over Neal's shoulder.

~WC~

"Shouldn't we call Shamus?" said Sara, as she threw the last of the towels into the compact washer.

"We only get one call, remember?" said Mozzie.

"I don't care!" She shouted, then immediately lowered her voice for Neal's sake. "Just get him on the phone!"

"Easy, kids," said Peter, undoing the top button of his shirt and whipping his tie from around his neck. He knew this was going to be a long watch, so he started by preparing himself. He would change into a set of sweats and sneakers, and put on a super strong pot of bold Italian roast coffee that Elizabeth had sweetly packed in his overnight bag. God bless her.

"There's not much we can do right now," Peter continued, "except be there for him. I picked up some antihistamines and something to settle his stomach..."

"You weren't here, Peter!" Sara spat accusingly. "You didn't see."

"Sara…calm down and listen to me."

She calmed only a bit, pushed back her hair, wiped her tears, and listened.

"I told you this wouldn't be pretty, that it would be brutal. I need you to be strong if you're going to do this. Now, why don't you go home and get some rest."

"No," she said, pacing anxiously. "I'm staying, Peter! I can't leave him like this."

"You're no good to him exhausted and spent. Now go home, get some sleep. I'll call you if anything comes up. I don't want to see you back here until your shift. Do you understand?"

Sara stared at the floor.

"No, Peter…_you_ don't understand…I said some things to Neal…. I picked the worst time to say those things to him."

"What did you say to him?"

"That my being here didn't mean there was a chance that we would be together again, that it was over."

"And you think that's why he went into convulsions? Don't be…."

"Don't say ridiculous. Don't you dare call me ridiculous, Peter! You didn't see the look in his eyes. You didn't see him on the floor…." She couldn't finish.

"Sara...I think you need to ask _yourself_ if it's over."

Sara was stunned. Her tears ceased. Her pacing halted. She opened her mouth to retort, but could not find the words.

"Go home, Sara," Peter reiterated. "All of you go home. Diana's on the way. We'll take it from here. If we need you, we will call you."

Argument defeated, Sara reached for her jacket. Mozzie helped her into it while Jones called for the elevator. When it opened, Diana stepped off.

"Hey, boss. Did I miss anything?"

Four grim faces stared back at her. She looked over to see Neal violently kicking back the covers to relieve the sudden temperature elevation. She breathed a sigh of relief.

~WC~

Mozzie stayed, but lay sleeping on a couch, with orders to be awakened if Neal presented any alarming symptoms.

Peter sat beside the bed while Neal slept. He knew Neal would not be asleep for long. Soon he would awaken in discomfort. Soon, the thrashing would begin. It was only going to get worse before it got better.

He flipped mindlessly through the pages of his newest sports magazine, and sipped his coffee, which had long since grown lukewarm. How had he and Diana gone through an entire pot so quickly?

He looked over at Diana, wide awake and reading in a comfy chair. He was never more grateful for having her around than now. He knew he could depend on her. Deep down, despite her complaining and threats of violent acts, he knew she considered Neal her friend.

"Peter…"

Neal was awake. He didn't look good. At least he was awake, Peter thought.

"Hey," Peter answered back and dropped his magazine to the floor. "You need anything?"

"Maybe a little water."

"Got you covered."

Peter had a bottle of water sitting on the floor beside him. He cracked open the cap and handed it to Neal.

Neal reached from under the covers. His hand was so severely trembling, he could hardly hold the bottle without spilling.

"Here," said Peter, "let me help."

He gently helped Neal sit up a bit, and then held the bottle to his parched, peeling lips.

"Easy."

Neal coughed after the first sip, but managed to take a few more sips comfortably. Peter tried to ignore how fragile Neal felt, as if he were diminishing in his arms. He was also alarmed by the heat of the fever that raged inside Neal. But he was not about to disclose this to Neal.

Neal nodded his slightly – he'd had enough of the water – then let his head drop back to the sweat-soaked pillow.

"How are you feeling?" Peter ventured, his voice low and resonant, masking his concern.

"Everything…hurts," he said, blinking his red, watery eyes, yet another symptom of withdrawal. Though, given the catalog of possible symptoms outlined on Shamus's comprehensive list, not as harsh or brutal as what will come.

"I'm not surprised. You want to take an antihistamine, or a couple aspirin? Might help you sleep. Shamus' orders."

Peter didn't wait for Neal's answer. He'd kept the OTC medicine close at hand, hoping for an opportunity to dispense a few. He pushed a capsule out of the blister and dropped it into the palm of Neal's trembling, outstretched hand. He watched patiently as Neal struggled to get it to his mouth without losing it. Then he helped him drink more water, and prayed silently that Neal would keep it all down long enough for it to take effect.

He helped Neal settle back down under the covers.

"I'm going to make some more coffee," Peter said.

Before he could leave, Neal asked, "Did they tell you?" His voice was low, filled with what Peter could only identify as humiliation.

"Tell me what?"

"About what happened…what happened to me."

"You mean the convulsion? Yeah. They told me. You okay?"

"No," Neal said so softly, Peter wasn't sure he heard him. He felt alarm growing in him.

"I got sick."

"I heard."

"I'm sorry."

"What do you have to be sorry for, Neal?"

Neal was silent. Peter imagined all the self-persecuting, self-destructive thoughts undoubtedly running through the former conman's mind at the moment.

"There's more."

Now it was Peter's turn to be silent. He waited.

"Before it happened…I was…I was going to run. I was going to take Jones' gun…just to scare him, and I was going to run."

Peter rubbed his face. Neal looked up, searching for Peter's true expression. He was surprised to see the agent smiling.

"What?"

"First, nobody scares Jones, not easily, anyway. And second, you never would have gotten to his gun. Many a man has tried, and found themselves in traction."

"What's third?"

"I would have found you. I'm two for two, you know."

"Yeah, I thought about that, too. Only…"

"What?"

"Never mind."

"What?"

"It's just…don't get me wrong, Peter. I'm not blaming you for anything. How was it you didn't find me when Hauser kidnapped me? What kept you from coming then?"

Peter had asked himself that same question more times that he cared to count. His sterling reputation had a hiccup in it, in that he could not even find his friend. How had the trail grown so cold so quickly and why had Peter given up?

Peter held back, not wanting to make this confession.

"I thought you didn't want to be found. I thought…I thought you'd had it with us do-gooders with the FBI, and that you'd chosen to go back to your old life. I searched for you for a month. Nothing. I was angry. I surmised that you had planned your departure long before the anklet came off, and that you were off on some Mediterranean island seducing art collectors out of their collections, or forging your way back to the glamorous life. I was wrong. If you hadn't reached out to me…"

"It's okay, Peter."

"No, it's not."

"It is. I called because I trusted you. I was right. I could've called sooner. Should have called sooner. You're here now. That's all that matters."

"I'm gonna make some coffee," Peter said as she stood and headed for the kitchen area.

~WC~

Peter poured coffee for two, and proffered one to Diana. She took it, using the moment to read Peter's face, to seek out what was going on behind his squinting eyes. Beyond tired, she knew he was taking to heart all the misery and agony of Neal's trial, as if he were somehow responsible for it.

"How's he doing?" she asked.

"I don't know. He's got this major crap storm ahead of him, and he already looks like he's ready to throw in the towel. I don't know if he's strong enough. I don't know if _I'd _be strong enough. Of all the people in the world for this to happen to…"

"Don't give up on Neal yet. He may have a few surprises."

"Yeah, you're right," he said, only partially conceding. "He asked me why we never found him. I was pissed at him. I honestly believed he'd decide to throw away every good thing we'd offered him! His friends, his job…. I was so busy being self-righteous that I never considered something like this could happen."

"Nobody considers something like this…"

"…because things like this don't happen? Well, it did. I'm the one always asking for out-if-the-box thinking. I could have found him weeks ago. I could have spared him all this."

"Maybe," said Diana. "But now's the time. And since you can't create a better yesterday, my advice, if you were to ask for it, would be to let yourself off the hook and concentrate on what Neal needs now."

"I knew there was a good reason you were on my team."

They toasted with their coffee mugs. The moment would have been perfect, were it not for the sudden, dreadful sound that shattered air and splintered the all-too-brief respite from chaos.

Neal was screaming bloody murder.

End Chapter 8

Thanks so much for reading. Hope you'll review. See ya next week.


	9. Chapter 9

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 9

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to the awesome Mr. Jeff Eastin.

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

_Give me a dollar or give me 50 cents  
>Let me take it back if that ain't what I meant<br>Give me a coat or give me a bite  
>give me a light bulb and make sure it's bright…<em>

_Let me take my thoughts away to think about another day  
>Remembering the times I pray to help me deal with me<br>To be the dogman_

_All the sleeping never waking all the leaves in need of raking  
>All the business undertaking all my bones and muscles aching…<em>

_-Dogman_ by King's X 

TWO MONTHS AGO

How had his big life come to this? To suggest that Neal Caffrey, renaissance man, confidence man, brilliant forger-turned FBI Consultant would ever be reduced to common street hustles and games of chance to survive would have been a grave insult. Such mocking would have deserved a sucker punch to the gut. Or lower.

Yet here he was.

"Find the Lady…"

He knew that the old Caffrey - the real Caffrey - needed to be submerged for a time, lest the world in which he travelled got wind of his grave misfortune. Only ruin would follow. Who would trust him, knowing his weakness, his addiction, his craving? Who would think him anything more than a pathetic substance abuser? The only way to protect and preserve his former reputation was to fall off the radar, to disappear. Completely. From Peter, the Feds, even Mozzie.

Even Sara.

Let the world speculate his whereabouts. Let them wonder what new score he was planning, question if he were even in New York or perhaps abroad living off the fat of some magnificent con, or deep undercover for the FBI. Let them picture him lying on a beach in the Mediterranean, or having suits fitted for him it Italy, or betting big amongst the highest of high rollers playing Baccarat in Monaco. He would resurface later once he was clean; the monster slain, the habit forced upon him well kicked and the sanity of a sober life restored. That was the plan.

Until such time, he knew he must settle to be the master of the street game – for now, it was Three Card Monte. Even with his hands shaking, or with the spiky tendrils of withdrawal encircling his spine, infiltrating his gut and gnawing at his brain, no one could beat him. No one could find the Lady, the illusive Queen of Hearts.

A good day could net him $300 in a few uninterrupted hours of gaming. He would make significantly less if the unexpected appearance of the cops sent him packing and running to seek different locations. Each day he would take his winnings immediately to whatever by-the-week rented room he was calling home to hide the bulk of the cash away inside a musty, hollowed-out copy of Kafka's "Metamorphosis" (which he had picked up in a flea market for a buck). He made sure to read it – for the third time – before taking a rusted, double-edged razor blade to the pages.

He allotted only a percentage to the monster – just enough to get him through the night - and off he would go with morbid urgency to make his connection. Blondie would usually be waiting for him personally, or perhaps some dodgy lieutenant Blondie could marginally trust. He hated, no matter who he transacted with, how they would always smirk and joke, wink and nudge, about the supposed joys or coolness of getting high. Neal wanted nothing to do with that. He abhorred it, found no joy, no cool or satisfaction in racing back to his apartment to slam a needle and get high. This was never his goal. For him, it had become about merely forestalling the dread physical agony. Sometimes he would wait, wait until his body cried out for it, as if he could wait. Eventually he would give in to the urgent cry of his flesh. Self-loathing would follow once the detestable, initial high subsided enough for Neal to realize yet again what he was doing. This was the never-ending cycle of the monster's nightmare routine. The rage within him was soul-damaging, the sorrow and disgust wounding to the very core of him.

Some nights he would actually cry until sleep overcame him. Some nights he paced the tiny rented room, slamming his fist into walls until his knuckles bled and bruised. Some nights he stared out of the window at the rain-slicked pavement below and wondered if he would die before he hit the ground. Most nights, however, he imagined finding Linus Hauser and his massive watchdog Aldo and exacting some form of revenge.

But the sun would rise the next day, and off to the park Neal would go with his flea market brief case filled with the tricks of his temporary trade to start the inevitable cycle once more.

Neal dreaded the days when the weather was inclement, for that would mean few or no takers for the game, and his daily take would be compromised. As a result, on a couple of dark occasions, Neal was reduced – compelled by pain - to do that which he swore he would never do again unless under the auspices of the Bureau: Pick-pocketing.

He was always good at it, and still was - his fingers worked like magic to extricate that which was not his from the pocket or purse of whoever he so strategically bumped or passed. Once or twice, he would even smile and apologize to his mark. They'd smile back. And hours later, he mused sadly, when they discovered all their cash and credit cards gone, they would never suspect that the charming man that had wished them a good day had had anything to do with such an unfortunate fluke.

But Neal was not like most pick pockets. He fought to have a semblance of conscience. Deep down, he knew it was futile (for knowingly stealing the wallet in the first place negated any act of contrition), but he nonetheless created for himself a sort of code of honor. He never used their credit cards, nor did he sell them or use them as barter. Indeed, he would treat all but the cash as if it were his solemn duty to protect. He would take just enough cash (men carried more cash than women, he discovered; women depended more upon the debit card) to cover what he perceived as his take for the day, then leave the wallets with credit and debit cards intact in a large black plastic bag and deposit it at a church, or sometimes just outside the local police station. He was certain their objects would be eventually returned, and the random twenty or fifty missing dollars would be considered a lesser offense and the theft would be eventually forgotten.

They day he realized that street vended hotdogs or left over pretzels had become his new staple, and that cloyingly sweet sodas had replaced a nice Malbec, Neal found himself depressed and mindlessly walking the streets of Manhattan. He knew he should not be out in the open this way for long. He knew his subterfuge could be discovered – Peter could be anywhere, or Jones, or Moz – but he cared little at the moment. His life had been sorely disrupted, and he was at a loss for ways to return to the existence he had grown to love.

It was early, slightly before 9:00 a.m., and the sidewalks were thick with the well dressed and gainfully employed racing to their cubicles for another eight hours of drudgery. He had considered liberating a few wallets, but his heart was not into it. He was edging toward withdrawal, having put off shooting up for as long as he could, seeking strength and some twisted form of redemption in the idea of abstinence. He was considering cold turkey, as they called it; simply locking himself in his rented room and letting whatever happened happen when he saw her.

She was walking, eyes fixed on a place or duty insider her head. She was dressed in yellow, a snug yet conservative dress that shimmered in the sunlight. She was sunlight. Her hair, which seemed redder than Neal remembered, bounced playfully, seductively, around her shoulders. Her Dooney and Burke bag hung from her left arm, bouncing against her thigh gently with each stride. Her shoes – heels so high she towered over most of the men she passed by, were a sexy and elegant extension of her already perfect legs.

His heart cracked painfully within his chest. Something deep in his masculine mind stirred, but was struck down by the certainty of what he had recently become. Something deep in his gut fluttered then exploded, sending hot chills through his core. Unwanted tears stung his eyes. He said her name aloud.

"Sara."

He recalled walking with her down this very street, with a kind of jauntiness to his step, quietly joyful and proud at the way she clung so fast and confidently to his arm. Remembering the lilt of her voice, the quality of her laugh, the way her eyes bore into his seeking honesty and truth, added tenfold to his gloom. He could not let her see him like this.

Neal ducked beside a small storefront to spy on her. Longing roiled and churned through him in choppy, torturing waves. He could barely breathe. Some part of him wanted her to see him, to run to him, to embrace him and make things the way they used to be. But the majority of him feared her all out rejection, her scorn, her flight. As she walked by, she looked slightly over a shoulder.

"See me…" Neal said, then, "Don't…"

She looked his way, but her eyes, luxuriantly seeking everything but Neal, turned back to the direction in which she walked. She put on dark shades and in mere seconds was absorbed into the crowd of dark suits and designer dresses. Gone.

Neal's knees gave out.

So did his courage and his hope. Gone with the loss of Lady, the illusive Queen of Hearts.

~WC~

"Easy, Neal," Peter said, hoping to soothe frenzied, hysterical Neal as he scrambled out of bed and ripped away the sheets in search of whatever phantasm had attacked him where he had lain. He checked his arms and felt his torso, face and back as if for blood or bite marks. Confounded when he could find no injury, he turned his fear and rage upon the three friends who stood in shock before him.

"What are you doing to me?" he demanded.

"No one is trying to hurt you…"

He stood rigidly in a corner as if the room had suddenly been set afire, and there was no possible escape. His face, that preternaturally striking face that had heretofore set hearts aflutter with a smile or a flash of blue eyes was now warped into a mask of unadulterated panic and dread. His eyes were wild and wide, his thick hair and thinning body soaking wet and shaking as if he'd been in a freezing downpour. He held out a hand, as if to stave off an attack from the three imagined beasts before him, as if they were hell-bent on ripping him to pieces. He sobbed, and begged, and screamed; accused, cursed, and threatened.

"Neal…"

Mozzie approached him with great precaution, empty hands up to confirm his harmlessness. Peter was a step behind him, coming up on Neal's right. Diana was on the left. All of them pleaded gently with Neal, hoping to break through the sham of whatever nightmare image had replaced the broken man's reality.

"Stay back!" Neal demanded.

"Neal…look at me. See? Look? It's me…Peter…"

"Peter…?"

"Yes! It's me. Now, why don't we just calm down…"

"I can't…I can't do this. I CAN'T DO THIS. I'll die. Can't you see I'm dying?"

"You're not gonna die, Neal."

"THIS IS KILLING ME! YOU'RE ALL KILLING ME!"

Neal's fevered eyes found Mozzie. Tears flowed, as he reached for his friend to petition his release.

"Mozzie…please… please," he whimpered, "You have to get me out of here. They want me dead. Do you see them? Do you see? The FBI, all of them! Keller, Wilkes, even Adler…he's dead but it could all be a lie! They….they're all in this together…they want me dead. They won't rest till I'm dead. You have to help me."

"Neal, please listen to me…I know this will contradict everything I've ever said about the Man, but Peter and Diana only want to help you."

A flash of hatred – palpable and insufferable. "You're in this with them. You're one of them. The hell with you, Moz! THE HELL WITH YOU!"

Peter watched, uncertain if he could endure much more of this. He could see that poor Mozzie was beginning to crumble under the deluge of harsh words and slaughtering accusations coming from Neal. He wanted to toss Neal to the floor and slap the cuffs on him, but knew it would be grossly unkind. After all, this was not Neal talking. Not his Neal. These words were not from the heart and mind of the man he had come to call his friend. This was a result of a mind and body detoxifying in every sense of the word. So much poison, so much pain, so much self-loathing and misery pouring out of him. He would excuse Neal just a little longer. But not much.

"Boss," Diana whispered, "I can take him."

"Hold on," warned Peter. "Let's see how Mozzie does."

Blazing blue eyes found Peter this time. He had seen the darker side of Neal before, but never had he seen him this dark, and never with such lunatic intensity. It threw him, it made sick inside. Neal pointed an accusing finger at Peter causing the agent to shudder.

"You…you manipulated everything! Me, Mozzie… HAUSER…all of this! You call me friend. But when my back is turned, I'm just a con. A criminal. Who paid you to set me up? Huh? WHO'S BEHIND THIS? WHO'S PAYING YOU TO DO THIS TO ME?"

"You really believe that, Neal? Because if you do, then there's no point to any of this! You want out? Go on, walk out! Leave NOW."

Suspicion gave birth to paranoia. Neal looked across the room to the elevator.

"It's a trap," he said. "It's a trap…"

Peter held up his hands in surrender. "No trap. You're free to go. Only if you do, don't come back."

Confusion and chaos were warring against good sense and judgment inside of Neal. He began to cry, the way he cried the night he renewed contact with Peter at Café Insomnia. He covered his reddening face, choking on tears and fluids building up massively inside of him, yet another symptom of his miserable withdrawal.

"I can't…do this anymore. It's too much. I can't. I really need…something. I need…I need a shot. Just one shot," he pleaded. "One shot, just one more…and we can start again tomorrow. I swear. Please…"

Peter, Mozzie and Diana stood firmly together. But it was Peter who spoke.

"Forget it, Neal."

Neal seemed to deflate, having lost his desire to continue to fight. For him, there was nothing left. Only pain. He collapsed before them, fighting to hold back a scream of anger, fear, and frustration. He lost.

Peter, Diana and Mozzie gingerly lifted Neal with little trouble and placed him back upon his bed. They covered him with a fresh, dry blanket, and all three sat nearby. It was a quiet vigil, meant to let Caffrey know that no matter what he did or said, they would never leave him, they would never abandon him.

"I think it's time," Mozzie whispered a few minutes later, taking the burner phone from his back pocket, "to give Shamus a call."

~WC~

THURSDAY MORNING

Shamus arrived shortly before sunrise with a few pilfered medications he promised would help take some of the edge off the worst of Neal's withdrawals symptoms. The former doctor sat an hour with Neal, constantly checking his vital signs to be sure that Neal was in no danger of suddenly or inexplicably circling the drain.

Before leaving, Shamus held up a single pill, then dropped it into a tiny yellow envelop and proffered it to Elizabeth. "I can't get more," he said, an apology implied in his tone. El, Moz and June, who were watching Neal, listened intently.

"I'll do what I can to get more, but I can't promise you. Just keep your eyes on Neal. Try to get him to eat. Keep him warm and as comfortable as possible. If the muscle aches and spasms get worse let him soak in a hot bath, as long as he wants, as often as he wants. If his knees hurt, or legs bother him he'll need to walk around. It may be a little irritating, but it helps to move. In another three or four days or so, he should be through the worst of it. I'll check in tomorrow."

~WC~

24 HOURS LATER

…_The thrashing was difficult to watch because there was little that anyone could do but let him thrash._

…_Neal could not lay still. His body would not allow it…._

…_He could not sleep…_

…_He could not sit, stand or walk without unremitting pain…His bones ached. His joints were on fire. The rebellion in his physical being was driving the poor young man to the brink of insanity…_

…_He beat the bed with his fists…_

…_He kicked and struck out at invisible adversaries…_

…_He cursed and dug his fingers into his own flesh, leaving long scratches that bubbled up with tiny spots of blood…_

…_Elizabeth brought him food. A simple cheese sandwich on a simple paper plate. Neal slapped it out of her hands and demanded sugar – candy bars. What little he ate he vomited almost immediately…_

…_The cold was so deep in him he had grown to believe he would never know warmth again. He shivered, teeth chattering audibly, imagining icy water replacing his blood. June brought more blankets, laying them upon him, but nothing could bring him comfort…_

HOUR 36

…_His legs kicked and pushed, practically spinning him in the bed…_

…_He rolled from one end of the mattress to the other…_

…_He rolled himself off of the bed and hard onto the floor several times, and would simply lay there, unable to move until whoever was on duty could help him back upon the bed. He didn't even know whose hands were upon him…_

…_His breathing was labored, deep in his chest, almost animalistic…_

…_The heat was unrelenting, as was the itching. He screamed that he was being consumed alive by a million minute insects with an insatiable hunger for his blood…_

…_Why wouldn't anyone help him? _

HOUR 48

…_He sat in a dining chair, a sweat-soaked blanket over his shoulders while his bedding was being changed. He was there for only a minute or so before standing and pacing the entirety of Thursday. They watched him, their hearts hurting as he groaned with every stiff, awkward step…_

…_He shakily sipped tea, and minutes later brought it all back up violently into plastic bag-lined trash can that he grew into the habit of holding at all times…_

…_He stood and fell and crawled back to his feet, refusing Mozzie's offer to help him, begging Mozzie to let him do it himself…_

…_He sat atop his bed rocking like a fevered child staring into space…_

_~WC~_

"Hey," Peter said. He'd just arrived from work. A case file was tucked under his arm. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty awful," Neal confessed, "but a little better than yesterday. I don't remember much, Peter, but I think I said a few things…crazy things…"

"I wouldn't worry about it."

"I'm trying to say I'm sorry, Peter."

"I know."

Peter handed Neal the file.

"What's this?"

"I need you to help me work a case. We are still partners, right? We do still work together."

Curious, Neal opened the file. What little blood was in his face suddenly drained away. Neal could not look at the face of Linus Hauser staring back at him, even if it was merely a flat, two-dimensional digital photograph. He flashed back in his wounded mind to the penthouse, to being imprisoned, to being handcuffed to the bed, and -

"Please tell me you found him," Neal whispered.

"Not yet. You're going to help me."

"How, Peter? I was out of it most of the time."

"Then let's considered the time you weren't out of it."

Neal shook his head, attempting to erase the horrible, scattered memories.

"I'm sorry. I'm no good to you like this."

"Take your time. You'll be good again soon."

Peter unloosened his tie and strode away from the bed toward the kitchen area. "Is there any coffee?"

Neal opened the file again, determined to fight against the nausea building in his gut.

_HOUR 72_

…_He sat shivering in a steaming hot tub of water, hoping to ease the aching muscles, while Peter sat on edge of the tub, reading the Lifestyle section of the Sunday New York Times to him. Neal fought not to laugh out loud every time Peter turned his nose up to the subject of men's fashion trends…_

…_He lay quietly, in and out of sleep, while June sat close by, softly singing vintage Billie Holiday tunes to him and stroking his freshly washed hair…_

…_While Jones dozed in a chair and Diana sat by the bed reading a gun magazine, Neal flipped through the Hauser files, shakily jotting down a few notes as shattered memories deigned slowly to return…_

…_He stood staring out of the massive movie screen size window, watching his first sunset in days, thought it felt more like years…_

…_There was not much strength in his body, but much of the pain had subsided. There was a dull ache in his head, a hollow feeling in his gut. But he was alive, and had survived days without a fix. The monster was on the decline, it's huger abating, its hold upon him slowly diminishing..._

HOUR 96

Neal insisted upon dressing for dinner. Though still rather weak, he showered and shaved (for the first time without anyone watching over him), and sat patiently while June gave him a quick hair cut, trimming away excessively long dark locks. He chose his outfit carefully, hoping to add some color to his pallid visage: dark slacks, sky blue shirt, black Florsheims. He combed his freshly cut hair, brushed his teeth and splashed on a touch of cologne.

He was the last to come to the table, and surprised and deeply moved when everyone seated applauded. He felt blood rushing to his cheeks, warming his face. He couldn't look at them at first, only smile and close his eyes to the memories of the past few days.

They were all there: Peter and Elizabeth, June, Mozzie, Jones, Diana and Sara. The only available seat at the table was next to Sara, and he wondering, embarrassed, by whose design that had occurred.

When the applause subsided, Neal picked up a tumbler of water to make a toast.

"I want to thank you all. There are no words…"

Emotion threatened to overcome him. He paused, concentrating on the water inside the glass.

"…Thank you…" The tears he hoped to keep at bay rebelled and fell at their own swift pleasure. "Thank you."

"To Burkes' Seven," said Jones, raising his water glass, "plus one," he gestured to June. "Mission accomplished."

"To family," said June, looking directly at Neal.

"Here, here," everyone said.

He sat and watched as his friends…his family… heartily passed heaping platters and heavy serving bowls around the table. Neal had hadfantasies of what a true family Thanksgiving meal might be like and hoped to one day experience it. This surpassed his fertile imagination by several miles.

Sara helped him spoon a few easier to digest items onto his plate. He ate tentatively, laughed heartily, listened attentively, and shared generously in whatever anecdote was being spun. He was surprised that twenty minutes after having cleaned his plate, and even accepting a little bit more, his food managed to remain in his system. After an hour or so, he felt fatigue setting in, aches returning, and he begged his friends forgive him as he excused himself from the table to lie down.

El, Peter and June efficiently cleaned up the dinner dishes. Jones and Diana said their goodnights. Mozzie promised to return before midnight after running a few important, albeit secretive errands. Sara joined Neal, sitting beside the bed.

"How's your stomach, Caffrey?"

"Fighting me, but at least I think I'm winning this time."

"You look better. Almost like your old self."

"I still have a long way to go."

Silence.

"Listen, Caffrey…I've been thinking. I said some things the other night when I was here…I was afraid…afraid of losing you…to the addiction. What I said, I want to clarify. Caffrey?"

He had fallen gently to sleep. She reached out and touched Neal's hand, which lay upon his chest.

"Never mind," said Sara. "It'll keep. You rest."

~WC~

Peter was reading through the Hauser case file for the umpteenth time, looking for that tiny morsel of information that would trigger inspiration, when his cell phone buzzed.

"Yeah."

"Boss," Diana said excitedly, "I think we may have a solid lead on Hauser!"

End chapter 9.

Again, thank you for reading. Hope you found it enjoyable. And thank you for over 15,000 hits so far! Please review if you're moved at all! See you in another week. 


	10. Chapter 10

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 9

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to my dream boss, Mr. Jeff Eastin.

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

_He heard voices, vaguely familiar. They were angry voices, quick tempered and harsh in tone and growing louder. He roused quickly from a dead sleep to find himself restrained to the bed by handcuffs. He pulled anxiously against the cold hard steel, felt the skin of his wrists twist and tear as blood poured down his arms in bright red streaks, soaking the mattress under him. _

_Neal tried to speak, to call out, but his throat was raw, as if he had been screaming relentlessly for hours. His pathetic utterances were barely audible, futile and ineffective. _

_He turned to look toward the elevator. Peter was there, but not alone. He was arguing with someone. _

_Linus Hauser. _

_No!_

_Hauser had a weapon, concealing it at his side. He had to warn Peter! Hauser raised the weapon and fired point blank into Peter's chest. Peter went down in a peculiar slow-motion dance that ended with the agent prone and still._

_Peter! No! _

_Hauser turned the weapon on Neal now. An infrared dot lit on Neal's chest and lingered where his heart should be._

"_For my son," Hauser said. Then he fired._

Neal woke up choking, unable to breathe for a few frightening seconds, convinced that he was dying. He lifted his hands to be sure there were no handcuffs binding him, and checked his bare chest for signs of blood. The pain he felt was real but internal – his heart was racing and pounding audibly in his chest. This was yet another traumatic after effect, courtesy of post-detox nightmares.

It seemed that even as he progressed in his physical recovery, his subconscious mind was still fighting to detoxify. His dreams were dark and unsettling, violent and disturbing, providing potent levels of horror no matter how light or deep his sleep. He was becoming apprehensive of sleeping, nurturing an irrational dread that he might not wake up. He also could no longer stand watching the people that he loved being slaughtered and ripped from his life in his subconscious mind. To keep the sleep demons away the rest of this night, he returned to something once and always loved to keep him lucid, awake and alive.

He was painting again. Rather, trying to. He had yet to regain the steadiness and surety of hand necessary to create – or recreate – art in his signature style. His lines seemed off, his strokes imprecise. To his artist's eye, some colors did not appear quite true. The brush, which had always felt like a natural extension of his own hand, now felt clumsy and awkward in his grasp. A slight tremor, still noticeable even with the heroine working out of his system, interfered with his flow, interrupted his energies. Neal was frustrated and not far from afraid. What if the residual effect of his addiction meant he had lost his "touch?"

He was still painting when June arrived with the sunrise, bearing a white shopping bag filled with a warm breakfast for two from one of his favorite cafés.

"That's lovely Neal," June said as she approached with two tall cups of herbal tea. She proffered one to Neal. He placed his stained pallet down, but kept his brush in hand, as if to continue reacquainting his fingers to the instrument, determined to master it again. She noticed how he stared disappointingly at the canvas on the easel as if some place in his soul had been betrayed by the image that stared back at them.

"Are we looking at the same painting?" he asked forlornly.

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's lacking. Life. Movement. Light. Kind of like me right now." He removed the plastic top from the cup and took a sip, hoping the warm herbal brew would help melt a little of the chill still lingering deep his bones.

"Sounds to me like somebody's getting a little stir crazy."

Neal nodded. "That could be. I know I'm not allowed outside...I can't be trusted…"

"You're not a prisoner, Neal."

"Feels like it. Although, I will say the food's better and the company far more captivating."

June smiled, batted her soft brown eyes. "Such a smooth talker."

"How was Byron…after…"

"After he kicked the heroin? Moody. We fought like cats and dogs. I yelled. He broke things. Fortunately he replaced them. Except for my music box."

"Music box?"

"I'd had it since I was a little girl. The only fancy gift my father ever gave me. He was a bit of a rolling stone. Couldn't stay in one place too long without getting anxious. When the siren call of another town or another city beckoned him, he'd pack a bag and off he'd go. He'd jump the rails, and just go, for as long as it took for him to miss my mother again. He'd come back, sometimes broke, sometimes with a suitcase full of cash. One day he opened his bag and pulled out the music box. There was a little girl in a sparkly winter cape and muffler. She would ice skate in a figure eight while the music played. After I married, I'd kept it hidden because I knew, depending on whatever hustle Byron was working, that he might have designs on it to sell it for quick cash. One night I caught him…he had found my music box and was on his way out the door with it. He turned, too quickly…he was still weak from his ordeal…and it fell to the floor. He never meant to break it, but he did. And he spent twenty years searching for another one just like it. Of course, he never found it. It was one of a kind."

"I'm sorry, June."

"That's just life, Neal. I thoroughly forgave him for it. He just never forgave himself. You'll break a few things along the way, too. But you can't spend twenty years trying to fix it. I can see it in your eyes. You feel terrible about yourself right now, as if you've disappointed everyone that ever mattered to you."

Neal looked away, cursing the tears that were threatening to fall.

"Haven't I?"

"No, darling. Look at me, Neal."

He could not.

"Please…"

He did.

"We all fall down. You were pushed. It's a rare occasion when we can get up by ourselves. And a lonely one. Isn't it wonderful to have friends who are willing reach down and reach out when you need them? I'm willing to bet that someone in your earliest years put a false idea in your head…that you aren't worth the trouble. You can believe that…or you can believe us. Did you ever dream that three of your strongest advocates would be FBI Agents? Or that an insurance investigator, of all people, would give her heart to you? Or that you would sacrifice your own life in exchange for the life of a friend? Peter told us…Hauser threatened to kill Mozzie. You could have run that day, saved yourself. But you didn't. That makes you, Neal Caffrey, one of a kind."

He wiped his tears quickly with the sleeve of his paint-stained shirt, and cleared his throat to find his voice again.

"Sorry. Kind of emotional these days."

"I'd be worried if you weren't."

She gave Neal's arm a compassionate squeeze, then regarded the painting again.

"Hmm...I think there's plenty of life in your painting," she said. "But you're right about the lack of light. Perhaps it's just like you said. It's a little of what you're feeling right now. You've been in a very dark place for quite a while. The light will return, Neal. Give it time."

Neal bent to deliver a kiss to June's forehead.

"Thank you."

"Anytime. You might want to put on a clean shirt," she said as she walked away. "Sara's coming."

He took a quick and subtle whiff under an arm.

"Yeah, clean shirt, good idea…" he said.

~WC~

He was taking a bath, the water exceptionally hot and soothing to his recovering muscles. His intention was not to sleep, but exhaustion got the better of him, and he subtly slipped into unconsciousness.

_Sara was crying. She was sitting on the mattress on the floor of his small rented room over the Asian Market. It was dark, and her back was to him, but he could tell it was her. Her head was bowed, and her hair spilled forward, covering her face. Neal made his way cautiously toward her. He reached for her, but she seemed so far away. The more he walked, the farther he had to walk to reach her._

"_Sara…"_

_She turned to look over her shoulder._

"_Stay back, Neal. Stay back. I can't stop it…"_

_Neal touched her shoulder. She turned and held out an arm to him, her fist balled. _

_A syringe was dangling from a swollen vein. Blood filled the syringe, pouring out of it, staining her lap, soaking the sheets, pooling around her._

"_I can't stop it!"_

Neal woke, nearly leaping out of the tub, splashing water. He grabbed the rim of the claw-footed tub and pulled himself up to sit and force himself to breathe.

He heard knocking.

"Neal! Are you all right in there?"

"Sara! Yeah, I'm okay."

"I'm coming in."

"No…wait…."

The door opened and Sara walked in. A vision in a dark green dress, she kept her eyes averted, looking at everything but Neal.

"I heard you yelling, and water splashing. I thought you'd fallen or hurt yourself."

"No," said Neal. "I fell asleep. I had a nightmare."

"Then you're okay?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

She backed out to leave.

"Sara…"

She stopped in her tracks.

"You've seen me…we've seen each other…"

"I know…"

"Why so modest now?"

"Out of…respect…I suppose…"

"Respect?"

"We're not the only people here, Neal. June is here. Peter's on the way."

"And?"

"And… we're not…involved anymore."

"That was your idea, Sara."

"I remember how it happened, Caffrey."

"I live in the clouds, you said. Some cloud. So why are you here?"

"It's my shift."

"No, I mean, why are you here at all, Sara?"

She paused, choosing her words carefully.

"Because you're worth saving, Neal. And because, no matter what, I care."

She backed out again, closing the door this time.

Neal sank back into the warm water.

~WC~

He was resting when Peter arrive shortly before noon. The agent was smiling, energetic, quite close to his usual self when he came to stand over Neal's bed.

"You awake?"

"Look at you. Must be some case you're on."

"It is. Get up, put your shoes on."

"We're going out?"

"Yes! Let's go, Caffrey, move."

Neal practically leaped from the bed, and instantly regretted it when hit with a few seconds of lightheadedness. He quickly slipped on dark socks and shoes, buttoned and tucked his shirt and grabbed a suit jacket. He reached for a hat, but something hindered him, held him back. He was not yet ready for the hat.

~WC~

Neal stood in the sun, face turned upward to feel its rays on his face, to savor how it warmed his body. He took in a lungful of New York air, and reveled in the amalgam of sights, sounds and energies: Pedestrians. Cabs. Busses. Dog-walkers. Street vendors. Police.

"Feels like it's been…forever," he told Peter.

Peter smiled and nodded. "Let's walk."

Peter took long, confident strides which encouraged Caffrey to keep up a brisk pace. They both needed the exercise. After a good five minutes of walking in silence, allowing Neal to soak up a bit more of his beloved city uninterrupted, it was time for business.

"We may have a lead on Hauser."

Neal stopped in his tracks.

"Is he here?" Peter could have sworn Neal's face grew pale at that sound of the man's name.

"He's not in New York, but he is back in the country. He's on every agency's watch list. But Hauser's smart - every time someone gets close to him, he gives them the sip. Remind you of anyone?"

"I hope you don't mean me, Peter."

They resumed walking.

"How long have you known about Hauser?" Neal asked.

"Couple of days."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Because I wanted you to get a little stronger first," said Peter.

"Hauser's taking a huge risk being here. He must have a deal in the works. A big one."

Peter nodded. "Exactly what I was thinking."

"We need to find a way to get him back to New York…"

Peter stopped this time. Neal studied his face and knew instantly by his friend's tight lips and averted eyes that the agent's next words were going to be difficult to hear.

"Whatever it is, Peter, just say it."

Peter hesitated a bit longer. "I want to go to Hughes. I want to bring you in, officially."

"No, Peter…we talked about this…"

"Hear me out."

He put a supportive albeit controlling hand on Neal's shoulder. Neal fought not to pull away.

"I want to nail Hauser. But I can't do it without ATF, Homeland Security, Interpol and every other agency scrambling to do the same. If they get a hold of him first…"

"Peter…"

"Listen to me. I want to catch him almost as badly as you do, but I want to do this the right way. I want it to stick, and I want him behind bars for the rest of his natural life. This isn't about vigilante justice. This isn't about the Burke's seven riding in and exacting revenge. As much as I've entertained the idea, I have to remember…I'm one of the good guys. I can't change that."

"I would never ask you to, Peter."

"Then let me go to Hughes. He's a good man, a fair man, you know this. Come clean about everything Hauser did to you. Let's do this the right way, as a team."

"Hughes will send me packing. He's not going to want a junkie former C.I. dirtying his halls of justice…"

"Neal…"

"Maybe we should just forget it. What's done is done. Besides, they Bureau isn't about to waste their precious resources on me."

"I don't believe that for a second. And neither do you."

"I don't know, Peter. I don't know what I believe anymore."

Neal took a step from Peter, surveyed the streets, felt it luring him away from his friends. He thought of Blondie, dark nights shooting up on the bathroom floor of flop houses, torturous nightmares, hating himself to the point of dancing with suicidal thoughts, and loneliness. The loneliness, the isolation, was the worst. He turned back to Peter.

"Worst case scenario?" asked Neal.

"Hughes demands you do a stint in rehab, then evaluates whether you're fit to return to duty. We find Hauser without you."

"That could take months."

"Yep. And Hauser could also slip right through our fingers without your help."

"And the flipside?"

"Best case scenario, Hughes signs off on Neal Caffrey designing the perfect sting to flush Hauser out of hiding and lead him straight to us. Then, you do rehab and get reinstated."

"The rehab's for the therapy, right?"

"Mostly, yeah."

"Tell Hughes I'm meeting with New York's finest radio shrink, Dr. Leslie Coine, starting tomorrow. I'll do rehab or whatever Hughes wants, for as long as he wants, _after__ we get Hauser_."

Peter patted him solidly on the back.

"You won't regret this, Neal."

"I'm not done yet."

Peter was taken aback by Neal's sudden take-charge attitude. It was as if the alpha Neal Caffrey had finally fought his way back to dominance, leaving the broken, tormented beta behind.

"You don't hold anything back from me, Peter. I want full disclosure on this investigation. You may think it's protecting me, but it's not. I don't care how insignificant the detail, I want know about it."

"Quid pro quo, Neal."

"Deal."

Peter smiled. He was enjoying this, and grateful to have his friend and partner back at his side.

"Anything else, Caffrey?"

"Yeah," said Neal, the familiar Caffrey smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Call a meeting of the Burke Seven. I think I already have a plan."

End Chapter 10

_I am so grateful to you for reading this. Thanks for nearly 18,000 hits! Please review if you're moved to do so!_


	11. Chapter 11

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 11

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin. Happy Holidays.

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

THE PRE-STING

Peter was annoyed at the direction of the conversation, shaking his head in righteous dissent before Neal could further elaborate his plan.

"No…There must be some other way to lure Hauser back to New York that doesn't include exploiting his dead son."

"By all means," Neal spoke without hiding his annoyance, "let's not be too cruel to the man who handcuffed me to a bed for a week and shot me up with heroin."

"Neal," said Peter, hoping to mollify his former C.I., "I hear you, but let's look at everything else first. Let's go back to the day you were kidnapped. What else do you remember? Don't leave anything out, even if it seems insignificant."

Peter paced somberly with arms crossed as he listened to Neal recount his story. Mozzie, Jones and Diana sat at the table, taking notes, attentively noting and absorbing every word, silence, gesture and tick from Neal.

"Beyond what I've already told you, there isn't much else."

"You can't tell us where the penthouse is, but you remember the view," said Peter, somewhat frustrated.

"There was a skylight. The rest is a blur."

"What about sounds?"asked Diana. "Horns, bells, alarms, anything that might have given you some clue about the location."

"Sorry, Diana. Nothing."

Peter returned to the table to sit before Neal. "Okay, then…let's talk about when you woke up on the street."

"It was an alley."

"Fine, alley…what do you remember?"

"Pain. My head was bleeding. I had no shoes, no cell phone. And I was pretty sick."

"How did you get there?" asked Jones.

"Aldo threw me in the back of a vehicle…"

"What do you remember about the vehicle?" asked Peter.

"Nothing. I don't remember the make. But that's not what's important…"

"It might be," said Diana.

"Trust me, Hauser probably had Aldo destroy it. Besides, it's not what I saw – it's what I heard. Granted, some of it may be slightly unreliable. I was somewhat incapacitated at the time…."

"Go on," said Peter.

"Okay…Hauser rode with us. I was in the back; Aldo was driving. They were talking, planning their next move. I fought to keep conscious, to keep up with the conversation. I missed a lot, but I remember a few things…

"…He said something about an airstrip, the one near the Hudson. I remember because it was the same one where Kate… Anyway, he said something about transferring money, no doubt to Aldo, his payment for the job, and that that would be the end of their arrangement."

Diana looked confused. "How does this help us?"

"There's more," Neal said. "Torch the penthouse. I remember Hauser telling Aldo to torch the penthouse and make sure there was nothing left."

Now Diana looked a bit more hopeful. "We can check records with local police and FDNY to find the penthouse. Any mysterious fires around the time Neal was missing. We can track it back to Hauser."

"Perhaps," said Mozzie, "but if Hauser is as smart as he's been in the past, there won't be anything to track back to him."

Jones rapped the table with a knuckle. "We find the place, we check with the fire investigator, find out what kind of accelerant was used and we can track it back to Hauser's goon, Aldo."

"That's a good start, Jones" said Peter. "But we want Hauser."

"Exactly," Neal said. "You want Hauser? Forget about the penthouse. We find his wife."

"Wife? What wife? Hauser has a wife?"

Peter looked confused – had they so easily overlooked the obvious? He reached for the Hauser file and opened it quickly to flip through the pages.

"There's no mention of a wife here," Peter said. "How could we have missed that? Are you certain?"

"As certain as I can be," offered Neal.

Peter held up a severely redacted page – every possible line was obscured by a thick black line, even the signature of the agent who had submitted the report.

"Jones," Peter began.

"I'll see what I can find out," Jones assured, taking the page.

"Sentimentality can be a dangerous thing," Neal said. Everyone looked at him for an explanation. "That's what Hauser said. He'd planned to visit her before leaving town, but something altered his plans. I got the impression he really wanted to see her though, but I'm willing to bet it wouldn't have been a happy visit."

"You get a name?" Peter asked.

"No. Aldo only referred to her as 'wife'."

"Okay," said Peter, quite excited, "We've got something. Let's comb through every piece of information we have on Hauser and figure out where the wife fell through the cracks. Let's get a name and track her down."

Jones and Diana stood, preparing to return to headquarters. Mozzie remained at the table flipping through the Hauser file.

Neal stood. He was anxious, mind stimulated by the thought of the chase, the promise of adventure. Peter stood before him, slipping on his suit jacket.

"Neal...what are you grinning at?"

"Kind of feels like old times," he said.

"It does. You look better."

"I feel better."

"You've got your thing today…?"

"Therapy session, yeah. I can change it to another day if you need me."

"No. You do your thing with the therapist. We'll clear out before she arrives…give you two some privacy."

There was more lingering between them, something else Peter needed to say.

"What?" Neal asked.

"It's good to have you back."

"Yeah," Neal said, smiling. "Feels good to be back."

~WC~

THE SESSION

"You must be Neal."

Her hand was warm and soft, he noticed. Her nails were cut uniformly short and unpolished. An engagement ring adorned her left hand.

"And you must be 'the' Dr. Leslie," Neal said with one of his stock, winning smiles.

"Leslie Coine," she said, "but please call me Leslie. I take it you've heard my radio show?"

"I confess that I'm not much of a radio listener. But I did listen yesterday."

"And?"

"And it was…entertaining."

"The medium demands it, I'm afraid," she said, not so much as apology, as merely a statement of fact. "I promise that our session today will be far less theatrical."

She took a look around at Thursday, and was clearly impressed by it. "You live here?"

"For the time being, yes."

"Alone?"

"There are others – friends – who are, for lack of a better word, _watching_ me while I recover. They've stepped out to allow us a bit of privacy."

"Good," she said. "Then let's get to it."

He took her wrap, a wide, soft scarf with an African motif, perfumed and colorful. He would never have pegged her as the nationally-known celebrity shrink, based on print articles and word-of-mouth he'd noted on occasion.

"I know," she said, as if she could read Neal's mind. "I'm not what you expected. Let me guess: Older, Caucasian, two piece red tweed suit with comfy-cushioned black pumps, a matching bag and one too many shots of Botox."

"You get that a lot, I'm assuming."

She nodded and ran a dark, delicate hand over the myriad soft, tiny dreadlocks adorning her head. Thin silver and copper bracelets tinkled gently as she moved.

They sat on the facing leather couches. Neal fought not to fidget while she prepared a legal pad and felt tipped pen to take notes.

"So…?" she began.

"So…" Neal repeated.

"Shamus told me much of what you've been through. I have to say it's quite an unusual circumstance. How are you feeling?"

"If I had dollar for every time I've heard that question lately…"

"How about just answering it?"

Neal took a deep breath. Talk therapy was not his preferred manner of spending such a glorious afternoon. Revealing his personal thoughts, uncovering feelings and bearing emotions was akin to mental torture. Not to mention the fact that, in his former chosen professional, the less people knew about you, the better. But he understood that this was a sacrifice he must endure if he ever expected to return to life as he once knew. He avoided Leslie's probing hazel eyes, letting his own eyes casually examine the room, hoping to convey the impression of a relaxed attitude. He wanted her to think – to know – that Neal Caffrey had everything under control.

"How am I? I'm a little tired. A little distracted."

"Emotionally."

His point of concentration became the ultra high heeled ankle boots she wore, and what they might suggest about her. To say that she was a beautiful woman was an understatement. To mention it under such circumstances would be in poor taste. But to entertain a few fleeting thoughts about her physical attributes was easier than wondering how she might be thinking about him, diagnosing him. In earnest, Neal was feeling uncharacteristically exposed.

"Let's keep it simple," she said. "Let's start with anger."

Neal felt heat rising in his cheeks. Yes, there was anger. Such anger. At Hauser. At himself. But he had successfully kept it under control until such time as he could unleash all that he was suppressing. Wasn't that the proper way to deal with it? It worked with Fowler, it worked with Adler. Somewhat.

"Yes," he said softly. "I'm angry."

"Sad?"

He nodded. "A little, maybe. Yeah."

"Fearful?"

Fear had kept him enslaved to the monster. Fear was the entity that had driven him away from the people he held dear. He nodded again, shuddered and rubbed his arm as he abruptly recalled with great and frightening detail Aldo holding him, tying his own silk tie around his arm to raise the vein, and that first pin prick of Hauser's needle invading his arm. He felt a dizzying rush to his head.

"Yeah," he said, hoping to shield from her the anxiousness he felt, that triggered a quickening of his heart. Could she hear it pounding as loudly as he did?

"Shame? Embarrassment?"

"Yes," he said, remembering the hell that was withdrawal, the torment of being so vulnerable and ultra-exposed before his friends.

"Happy?"

"What?"

That threw him. Happy? In this nightmare? His first instinct was to vehemently deny it. There was no happiness to be had. Happiness was a foreign concept, something once treasured but now lost. But as he considered it more, his thoughts began to shift away from all the insufferable experiences of the past few months. He realized that there was such gratitude for his friends, as well as for being sober and lucid and back on track. He was genuinely happy for Thursday, for long time friends like Mozzie, and for Peter Burke, who believed in him enough to risk jeopardizing his career with the bureau to save him. Even more, he was looking forward to the future again, to the excitement of the chase. Neal caught himself smiling.

"I guess," Neal replied. "Yes. I'm happy to be alive. Happy to be sober and in my right mind again."

"Good. I want to help you stay that way. Let's talk about a recovery plan, what you plan to do to stay sober…"

"I appreciate that, really. But I already know I'm never going to use again. I'm not the drug using type, never was. Beyond a glass or two of wine – fine wine – I was never much for mind altering substances. My line of work requires sound thinking, sober judgment. Believe me when I say, with all honestly and clarity, that I never intend to use again."

He waited for her response. He expected her to believe him, to congratulate him, admire him, and agree with him. He wanted her to stand up and shake his hand, pronounce her work as done and leave. When she did none of those things, he sat back and stared defiantly into her bright eyes. How dare this…radio shrink…doubt his sincerity?

"I know myself," he adamantly continued. "I know what I'm capable of. I know that I will never pick up a needle again."

"You might," she said, quite matter-of-factly.

"No, I won't."

"You might," she insisted.

"You don't know me," Neal said, more forcefully than he intended.

Leslie smiled, subtly. It reminded him of the Mona Lisa. To him the subject of that much beloved painting seemed to be defiantly withholding something, and the price for disclosure was steep and non-negotiable. Neal returned the smile, as he held obstinately to his certainty of self.

What she did next infuriated him.

She wrote a note. She took her time writing it. Neal watched her, exasperation evident on his face.

"Go on," she said, riling him further.

"No," he said, standing his ground firmly. "You seem to think you know all about me. Why don't you enlighten me?"

"Are you sure you want to hear it?" Leslie asked calmly. That hint of a smile was still playing at her lips.

Neal crossed his arms and sat back, suggesting that she do the talking for a change.

After a beat, she said, "I'm not here to judge you, Neal. I'm not here to condemn you. I just want to help you get comfortable with living without ever using again. You think you're already there. I hope you are. But I'm willing to bet you're not…and I'll tell you why…

"The map of your brain has been seriously affected by opiate abuse. Your first time using may not have been voluntary, but every time after that…it was all you. That's the part we need to deal with – the compulsion that lead you to continue once you were out of harm's way. Your ability to choose was compromised, and the resulting damage may mean you will _almost certainly always crave_. Be honest with me, Neal. Have you been craving?"

"I can control it."

"That works for today. But what happens tomorrow? What happens when life's pressures overwhelm you?"

"Do you still crave?"

"I do. Once in a while. I have someone to call, a sponsor, when things get bad for me."

"Can't I just do that? Call someone?"

"You'll have to work your way up to that, Neal. More counseling. Group sessions. Steering clear of situation that may trigger you to use again…"

Neal remained quiet, arms stiffly crossed as he considered her words.

"I felt…something. The other day, I was taking a walk with Peter. He brought up Hauser. I swear it's true, when I say I never want to use again, but something was…triggered. I found myself looking for Blondie."

"Your connection?"

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"I'm an addict. Been there."

"It was just for a second. I wasn't actively seeking him out, but he crossed my mind. I swear I had no intention of doing anything. But I wonder, if Peter wasn't there…"

"We are liars, we users," said Leslie. "We lie to everyone. But mostly, we lie – quite convincingly – to ourselves. We want so badly to believe we are in control. But the proof is in our actions. Right now, Neal, you're thinking you know what you need better than anyone else. You've struck down the beast, conquered it, and you're back from the dead. After all that, why would anyone dare doubt your intentions?

"I'll tell you why," she continued. "You're an addict. What you don't want to do, you will do. What you want to do, you won't. You can foist all blame and responsibility for your addiction on the man who violated you, but you cannot escape the truth: You are an addict, and without treatment, relapsing is highly probable. How does that hit you?"

Neal took a deep breath and wrung his chilled hands together. "I'm overwhelmed," he whispered.

"Now that's honest, Neal," she said. "I can work with that."

~WC~

IN THE EVENING

Peter tossed his suit jacket onto the arm of the sofa and sat a cushion away from Neal. Tonight, he would be the only one to sit with Caffrey. Jones and Diana would be working late, using Bureau resources to continue tracking down the mysterious Mrs. Hauser. Mozzie, secretive as ever, left promising to return before midnight, intent on picking the brains of a few street contacts to assist in finding the absent wife. Elizabeth and Sara were having dinner at June's – a sort of ladies' night out, a welcomed break from all the drama and intrigue, and a chance to bond.

"How'd it go?" asked Peter.

"With Leslie? Good," said Neal, rubbing his tiring eyes.

"Oh, Leslie is it? You look discouraged."

"Yeah, maybe. A little."

"Didn't hit it off with her?"

"She's fine. She's great."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

Neal gnawed absently on a knuckle. "She thinks I'll relapse."

Peter loosened his tie and waited patiently for more information. "You might," he said, then rose to check on the availability of coffee.

"Did you two compare notes or something?"

Peter poured two mugs of coffee and brought one to Neal.

"Glad to know how much faith everyone has in me."

Peter sat back, propping his feet up on a supple leather ottoman.

"Well…you can sit there and mope or…you can ask me what I found out about Hauser's wife."

It was as if in an instant, life and vitality returned to Neal's countenance. Peter one-handedly dug a photo from his discarded jacket pocket and passed it to Neal.

"According to a very reliable source, this is Kristin Chandler, currently age 44. Married to Linus Hauser in 1995, had a son together in '96, divorced in '99. Hauser was arrested prior to the divorce on domestic abuse charges, but the charges were dropped. Remarried Hauser in 2003, divorced him a second time in 2005. Hauser was arrested two more times, same charges, but she dropped the charges, both times."

"Talk about a history of violence. So, where is she now?"

"That was the tricky part. It appeared she'd covered her tracks well. She dropped off the radar around 2009."

"Right around the time of our sting. You arrested Hauser…Hauser escapes…"

"And she went missing."

"You think she skipped the country?" Neal asked.

"That was my first thought. Until we received that photo."

"So what's the deal?"

Peter took a sip of coffee. "WITSEC."

"Witness Protection? Peter, if she's in the program…"

"We can't touch her, I know," Peter said, casually brushing a piece of lint from the knee of his trousers.

"You seem uncharacteristically nonchalant about it."

"There's a reason…this picture," Peter said, "was taken at an A.T.M. here in Manhattan."

"So…" Neal regarded the photo, carefully studying the grainy black and white digital image. She was pretty, dark haired, but dressed in such a way as to discourage attention.

"How long ago was this taken?"

"This morning."

"What?"

"Yup. Jones has a good friend with the U.S. Marshals. Owed him a huge favor. The friend wouldn't have budged ordinarily, wouldn't have dared agreed to give out information on the former Mrs. Hauser, _if she were still in the program_. Apparently, she skipped out about six months ago, so the obligation to further protect her is officially null and void. But they still keep tabs on her – thus the A.T.M. surveillance photo – since the Hauser case is still open and of great interest to Homeland Security. They were able to pick up on her using simple facial recognition software, which means she's vulnerable. Anyone who wants to find her, could find her. We were hoping she was still using her WITSEC alias to keep Hauser off her trail, but apparently she's not. She must've given herself a new one."

"If Hauser wanted to see her, he's already figured it out whatever alias she's using. Peter, we need to find her."

"That's the idea. Jones and Diana are working on nailing a location. Soon as they get something…Neal? Neal, what's wrong?"

Neal's face had lost all color. He was staring wide-eyed, unblinkingly at the photocopy, as if he had discovered some dark and terrible apparition lurking in the image. Fear transformed into a quickly boiling rage that reddened his eyes, tightened his lips, and for a moment, stole his voice.

"Neal, talk to me."

Could it be…could such a thing be true?

"Peter…look at the photo…"

"Neal…?"

"Who is this?" Neal pointed with a trembling finger at the fuzzy image of a young man standing closely behind the former Mrs. Hauser.

"Don't know…someone in line to use the A.T.M. What about him?"

"How old does he look?"

"What?"

"_HOW OLD DOES HE LOOK TO BE?"_

"I don't know…fifteen maybe? Sixteen? I don't underst…oh my God…"

"Peter…I think…I think this is Daniel. If this was taken today, Daniel's alive. Would the Marshals fabricate his death to protect him from Hauser?"

"That's not what they do. Make you disappear, yes. Fake your death, not their method."

"Peter, if this is Hauser's son, and he's still _alive_, then…all this…_everything Hauser did to me_…"

"He did it to you for nothing."

End chapter 11.

_Thanks, all of you, for over 21,000 hits on SMIYC! Such encouragement! Please review…I'd love to know what you think, how you feel about SMIYC. See you in a week and Happy Holidays!_


	12. Chapter 12

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 12

By

Lacadiva

_Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin. Thanks for letting all us fanfic writers enjoy playing in your world! Happy New Year, everybody!_

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

Neal stood before Thursday's magnificent picture window, the reflective sun near-burning his pale skin through the thick glass. He welcomed the burn, because it reminded him he was still alive. He had been there for nearly an hour, practically unmoving, staring almost unblinkingly at the sun-drenched rooftops until the intensity of light threatened to leave permanent spots in his vision. Had the others seen his face so brooding and pensive, they would have easily surmised all the machinations of his whirling mind, the myriad emotions at war within him. No one dared disturb him, giving him liberty to process his way through the amalgam of hate, despair, fear and loathing that had temporarily paralyzed him.

Daniel Hauser was not dead.

This was a game-changer.

Neal had nearly bought into the idea that he had spent the last few months in hell to pay for his complicity in the downfall of Linus Hauser which, in turn, triggered events leading to the boy's supposed death. Neal tried to reach into his own blistered heart to find an ounce of understanding, a mustard seed of compassion for Hauser: a father's anguish, the insanity of addiction, the futility of estrangement, the despondency of loss. Yet he could find nothing to comfort or cure his stricken soul.

If the boy was still alive, then what was all of this for? The senselessness of it stymied him. It wasn't as if Linus, upon finding out his boy was alive, could undo any the damaged he had done (or the damage he had given Neal cause to do to himself). None of this could be undone. This wreckage could not easily be cleared away, not even by the capable helping hands of his friends. The landscape of Neal Caffrey's life had been forever altered, and there was nothing anyone could do to fix it. He looked down at the row of fading track marks on his arm. They were healing, yes, but were still visible. He worried if the telltale signs of his affliction would ever fade, much as he once pondered if the bruising left by the tracking device once shackled to his ankle would ever fade enough that he could forget it was ever there. Would he ever truly be free?

"Neal…"

He heard Peter's voice, but he was not yet able to speak. He licked his drying lips and shoved his hands forlornly into his pant pockets.

"Neal…"

He closed his eyes. Splotches of red – afterimage temporarily burned into his vision – were insufficient walls to hide behind. He flinched as a warm and unexpected hand touched has shoulder, giving him a well-meaning but impotent squeeze of support.

"Give me a minute," Neal said.

"Mozzie's back," said Peter, his voice low and deep. "He thinks he may have an address."

~WC~

"You've got to let me go, Peter," Neal pleaded.

"I have no problem with you going…just not going in alone."

Neal turned to the mirror to tie his tie.

"I can do this," Neal promised. "I'm strong, I feel better than I've felt in weeks."

He held out flat one of his hands as proof – the tremor was gone, his hand was as steady as ever.

"I'm not questioning your physical capability, Neal. I'm just questioning your judgment."

Neal turned to face Peter as he put the finishing touches on his tie.

"What do you think I'm going to do to them, Peter?"

"I just don't think you're ready."

"You're wrong."

Neal reached for his suit jacket which was draped across the bed. Peter intercepted it, holding it back from Neal.

"Listen to me. You have been through _severe trauma_...I don't know of any precedent for this. There are probably deep psychological scars…"

"So now I'm crazy?"

"Will you just listen to me? You have been hurt, Neal…hurt beyond your experience or mine to understand deal or with! None of us knows what this will mean for you…"

"You think I'm going to buy a high-powered rifle and stake out a water tower somewhere?"

"No…but you might do something _stupid_ or get yourself killed. Or…"

"Relapse?"

Peter scratched the back of his head. "The thought had occurred to me, yes."

"Can't trust an addict, huh?"

"Neal, listen to me – "

"No, Peter! You listen to me! I can't predict the future anymore than you can…but I can tell you this: I will do whatever I have to do to find Hauser, whether you allow it or not. You have only two choices here…let me do this, or arrest me. I'm free, the anklet's gone. You're not responsible for me anymore, and you can't tell me what to do. I've paid my debt. Now let me do this."

He took his jacket from Peter and waited for the agent's response.

"Fine. You can go in, talk to the boy, and ascertain if it's him."

"Thank you."

"And IF it's him, we work a plan together."

"Agreed."

"Good. And I'm going with you."

"You'll just spook the kid."

"Excuse me?"

"He'll think you're a fed –

"I am a fed."

" – or a hit man sent by his father."

"So what do you suggest, 'agent' Caffrey?"

"You get to sit in the car for a change."

~WC~

The boy, tall and lean, was rolling at a steady, assured pace on his skateboard. Gothic white skulls on dull black was the dominant motif of his board, as with his outfit – baggy black jeans and skull and wings tee shirt, chains and black boots, leather armbands, and only one prominent, visible piercing in the form of a silver skull stud in an earlobe. His blonde hair was shaved close to the scalp except for one side, where the longish locks had been dip-dyed a partial deep red. He dismounted his board and kicked it, sending it upward and deftly into his hand, and then made his way up the steps of a quad-level renovated brownstone on 121st Street in Harlem.

"Daniel?"

Terror was unmistakably etched on the boy's face. His eyes were icy, just like his father's, but unlike Linus, there was no contempt or disdain for humanity in them. Just fear. Rather than waiting to see what Neal wanted, the boy grabbed hold of one of his many dangling, jangling chains and pulled a ring of keys from a pocket. His hands shook has he fought to take hold of the key, find the keyhole and engage the lock.

Neal was standing at the bottom of the steps, holding up both hands as proof of his intent to do no harm.

"Take it easy, Daniel, I just want to talk to you."

Daniel froze at the sound of his name again and turned to Neal, visibly trembling.

"I'm not Daniel," he said, and returned his attention to the door and nearly fell as he pushed it open and raced inside.

He'd left the door open. Technically, Neal could not be held liable if the door was left open. Should he pursue?

He looked over his shoulder at Peter, sitting in the driver's seat of his car and watching. Peter looked as if he were about to climb out, but Neal gestured for Peter to remain. Surprised that Peter would even entertain doing as he asked, Neal took to the steps and cautiously approached the still opened door. Just as he pushed it aside a bit and took a step in, Daniel appeared, nervously holding a gun a Neal.

"DON'T MOVE!"

"Easy!," Neal said, showing his hands again. "Don't shoot. I swear I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to ask you a few questions..."

"Did he send you?"

"Your father? No, he didn't send me. But he did try to ruin my life."

The boy regarded Neal with a bit less fear, but greater suspicion now.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"My name is Neal. Neal Caffrey. I work with the FBI."

Neal noticed the boy's trembling suddenly ceased, so dropped his hands. Daniel did not lower his weapon, but he seemed less interested in actually shooting Neal. For the moment.

"Yeah? Show me your badge."

"I don't have it with me…But I'm a consultant, I do undercover work. Because of me, Hauser was arrested."

"He still got away."

"I'm trying to help fix that. There's a man sitting in a car across the street…he's FBI and he _does_ have a badge. His name is Peter Burke. He's a good man…you can trust him. If we're going to capture your father again, we're gonna need your help. You mind putting that gun down for a moment?"

The boy lowered the gun, but would not yet let go of it.

"My mom will be here soon," the boy warned. "Talk fast."

"You're Daniel Hauser."

"Not anymore."

"Your father thinks you're dead."

"So?"

"So…why aren't you dead? How'd you fool him?"

"It was my mom's idea. She knew he would never leave us alone unless I was out of the picture."

"Why did you leave the Witness Protection Program?"

"They put us in Wisconsin."

"What's wrong with Wisconsin?"

"Cudahy."

"I see your point."

The boy gestured Neal to enter further into the house. He was gaining the boy's trust.

"That's not where they put us at first," Daniel continued. "They moved us three times, and every time he found us. My mom got tired of us being afraid."

"So she faked your death."

Daniel said nothing, but did relax enough with the gun to shove in the back waistband of his black jeans.

"How?" asked Neal.

"_Why don't you ask me?"_

It was a woman's voice. Strong but nervous, generously laced with malice. Neal automatically threw up his hands again before turning, expecting to find Daniel's mother pointing a gun somewhere in the vicinity of his head.

He was right.

"Kristin Chandler, I presume?"

"Who?" Not so much a question as a denial.

She was petite, understatedly pretty, and dark haired as in her picture. Her outfit, drab casual, suggested someone who wanted to blend in or disappear wherever she went.

"Mom, he's okay."

"Shut up!" she reprimanded. "Nobody is okay! Anyone could be working for your father! How many times have we talked about this? You don't talk to anyone, you don't let anyone in the house, and you don't tell anybody anything!"

"Mom," he tried again, "he's the guy who caught dad the first time."

"You're not the guy. I remember that guy, and you're not him."

"Technically," Neal said, "the guy who caught Linus wouldn't have caught him without me."

"Yeah? Well, where were you when he walked out of jail?" Kristin spat. To her son, she said, "Call 911. Tell them your mother just shot and killed an intruder…"

Neal dared take a step forward. "Wait, Kristin…"

"Shut up and don't move!"

Neal tried again. "Please, listen. I'm not armed. I'm not here to hurt you or your son…I just want to find Linus Hauser and put him away for good this time."

"Then why come here?"

"I can explain if you'll give me a chance."

She pulled the slide of the gun, ready to fire.

"FBI! PUT THE GUN DOWN."

~WC~

She poured them strong black coffee and offered them oatmeal cookies, which none of them touched. She sat at the table with them, twisting a napkin into a short tight rope as she spoke. Daniel was in his room, under her orders to remain there until all of his homework was done, so that she could speak candidly and privately to the men who sought her husband.

"Linus was a monster," she said, "and that is not an exaggeration. He terrified my son and me, and almost everyone he ever dealt with."

"I can vouch for that," said Neal, running a hand through his hair as the recent memory swept through him. "I'm sorry. Go on, please."

She took a deep breath and continued.

"We never knew from one moment to the next what to expect from him. One day, he's lavishing us with expensive gifts, handing us stacks of cash, gold cards…the next he was terrorizing us. Lucas – we call Daniel Lucas now…he likes Star Wars – Lucas was terrified of him, hated him. The first time he tried to stand up to his father, to protect me, Linus punched him hard in the face, knocked him out. His own kid. Said if he wanted to be a man, he'd have to take it like a man. He was only twelve."

She stopped and looked at the twisted napkin in her trembling hands.

"We tried to leave him so many times," she continued, "but every time he would find us. He offered to let me go, but he said I'd have to leave our son with him. No way. Then along comes the FBI and blows his gun running operation out of the water. I thought, finally, I'll be free of him. He'll go to jail for the rest of his life and my son and I would be free. They arrested me and offered me a deal – immunity to testify against him. That was a no-brainer. I never actually participated in what my husband did, but I knew a lot. Mostly names. I had enough information to put Linus away for a very long time. And then he escaped. I prayed he'd skipped the country. But one night he called and said he was standing outside our house, and that he had two bullets, with our names etched on them."

"And that," surmised Neal, "was when you decided to go into WITSEC?"

"It was the FBI's idea. We met with the Marshals, they gave us the big speech…the whole song and dance about leaving our families and our old lives behind. I had no problem, so long as I never had to see or hear from Linus again."

"But that wasn't the case," added Neal.

"He found us. Left a bouquet of dead flowers on our front door. The Marshals moved us. And he found us again. I realized his network was more far-reaching than the Government, and that if I wanted to survive, I had to start formulating my own plan."

"The death of your son," said Peter.

"Yes. Lucas…Daniel had begun using drugs at around age thirteen, and was hanging out with a rough crowd. He hated his father. Hated me too, for a while. I'd put him in programs…he'd just run away. Even while we were in WITSEC. Every time the Marshals would find him and drag him back, he'd just start using heavier stuff.

"He went from smoking marijuana at parties to doing it every day. Crack, meth, heroin…whatever he could score on the streets. He sold our stuff, stole from me.

"WITSEC tried to help, but Daniel didn't want to be helped. The last time he ran away, he came all the way back to New York. I didn't know he was here until one night a couple of Marshals showed up on my doorstep to escort me here, to the hospital. My son had overdosed on a combination of drugs…everything you can image."

Her voice broke as tears mixed with black mascara made thin trails down her face. "They said it was intentional. Some…_friends_…he got high with that night dropped him on the doorstep of the hospital and just left him there. He could've died. That's when I got the idea. I was back in New York, and I still had friends…not of all of whom were on the right side of the law. I had a bit of money stashed away, and borrowed more. I also had a piece of evidence I was holding back from the Marshals and the FBI…insurance, just in case they screwed it up."

Peter perked up. "What kind of insurance?"

She rose and indicated her desire for help to move the small round oak dining table with thick, embellished legs.

Peter and Neal rose and moved the heavy table at her direction. Then Kristin knelt and ripped up a piece of carpet on the floor. Taped to the bottom of the carpet was a manila envelope.

"I didn't know if this would work," she said, ripping the envelope from the carpet lining and hugging it against her, "but it did."

"Give it…" Peter moved as if to confiscate the envelope.

Neal touched Peter's shoulder. "Let her tell it."

Kristin stood and continued.

"I used the money to pay off a few people to bury his hospital admittance forms, make them disappear. We snuck out, right past the Marshals, a day before he was scheduled to be discharge. I planted an obituary in the Times, called a few of Linus' relatives I thought he might keep contact with and told them Daniel was dead of an overdose. No details. I hoped that once Linus found out is son was gone, he'd eventually lose interest in me. At least, that was the hope."

She took a deep breath, as if she had been finally relieved of a heavy burden, at last able to share what only she and her son had carried with them for a very long time. Her tears had retracted, her demeanor was calm as she handed Peter the envelope she had been clutching.

"Names… just a few…but very important names. A judge. City officials. A couple Fortune 500 CEOs. Private cell numbers. Transcripts of private conversations between them and Linus. Two of them have ties to terrorist organizations – I remember hearing their names on the news. Linus kept meticulous records of all his clients locked away in a safe to use against them if necessary. He thought I didn't know about. There was more, so much more, but Linus burned the rest before the feds showed up to arrest him. I kept this because I figured if he ever caught up with me, I could use it for leverage."

Peter ripped open the envelope and removed the documents. It was exactly as she said and it infuriated him, confounded him, and ignited him with the thrill of the hunt. The implicated were men and women unequivocally trusted with their authority and lauded for their integrity. Some were indeed notorious for their deep connections to the underworld and domestic terrorist circles. How could they betray the public trust this way? All of them stood to lose far more than their reputations should their names be made public and their connection to Hauser investigated.

"But Hauser stands to lose the most," said Neal out loud and he perused the contents of the envelope after Peter. "If this list goes public, everyone Linus ever dealt with will cut their losses and run. He'll become a target, with no safe place to hide or a friend to protect him."

"This is a powder keg," Peter said.

Neal smiled. "And we're the match."

"You put him away," said Kristin. "You put him in the ground if you have to."

"Mom…"

Daniel stood under the archway of the dining room. His face was pale with fear.

"What is it honey?"

"Someone's outside!"

End Chapter 12

_Thank you so much for all your kind attention these last few months while I write SMIYC. And thank you for nearly 25,000 hits and your kind comments! Have a wonderful, safe, and fun New Year! Lacadiva. Oh, yes, and please review! _


	13. Chapter 13

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 13

By

Lacadiva

_Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin. I am chompin' at the bit here for January 17__th__!_

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

PREVIOUSLY…

_Daniel stood under the archway of the dining room. His face was pale with fear._

"_What is it, honey?"_

"_Someone's outside!"_

~WC~

Chapter 13

Peter was instantly on his feet, service revolver clutched tight and held downward.

"Neal, get them upstairs and stay with them. Get Jones on the phone and have him and Diana meet us here. GO!"

Neal moved swiftly and unquestioningly, shepherding the boy and his mother up the long, narrow staircase. His heart was racing, breath coming in short gasps, but deep down somewhere in his core, the true Neal Caffrey was reveling once again in the thrill of the chase. This was what he had always loved, what always made him feel vital and alive. Whether he was running from the feds or with them, avoiding arrest or assisting in the take down of another, the thrill was always potent and invigorating as much as it was terrifying. He felt a smile forming on his lips as he hit the top of the stairs but rebuked himself – this was not an appropriate response to the situation, at least from the perspective of the endangered family. He would smile again later, he thought, should they all live to recall it.

Once on the second level, he urged them toward the master bedroom, closing the door and locking it behind them.

"Daniel, the gun…give it to me…"

"It's not real. It's a pellet gun."

Neal exhaled loudly in frustration. Kristin pulled her own gun from her waistband. "Mine is real."

"You know how to use it?"

"I was married to a gun runner," she reminded him. The "duh" was implied by her look.

"Hold onto it," Neal told her, and shoved them both in the direction of her small walk-in closet. "Stay in here," he whispered anxiously, eyes wide and brilliant blue. "Don't come out until I tell you."

~WC~

Peter checked the hall, making his way furtively to the front door and examining every sight and sound for danger. He opened it slowly. His practiced eyes scrutinized every car, person or pet moving along the neighborhood. Nothing seemed suspicious…yet. He moved down the concrete steps and to the lip of an alley two brownstones away. Trash bags, recycling bins, and dried overgrowth from unkempt hedges and dying rose bushes made the way an urban obstacle course. He deftly overstepped the bags as he worked his way into the alley and found the back end of Kristin's house. Shadows were creeping into cooling brick corners as the sun was diminishing, making way for quickening night.

Something – or someone – moved out of the corner of his eye.

"FREEZE! FBI!"

~WC~

Neal stood with his back flush against the wall, clandestinely peering between sheers and blinds down below for whoever had frightened the boy. He saw movement and held his breath, but released it when he recognized it was only Peter he saw moving. He was beginning to think Daniel had perhaps been mistaken, or even imagined his intruder. Perhaps it was merely a neighbor using a back entrance, or someone had innocently wandered the wrong way, he had hoped. Just as Neal was beginning to relax, he saw someone move that was not his friend.

"Peter!"

~WC~

A man in a cheap dark blue suit threw his hands up the moment he heard and saw Peter.

"Don't move!" Peter warned.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I don't have any money!" the man insisted, hands rigid in fear.

"FBI," Peter said again, quickly and adeptly flashing his badge, then just as quickly returning it to his pocket to keep his hands free for combat. "Who the hell are you?"

"Arthur Wiggins!"

"Who do you work for? Who sent you?"

"Lenox Avenue Realtors and Leasing!"

"Who?"

"I'm a realtor…okay, not yet…but I'm studying for my license…."

Peter expelled a long held breath, allowing himself to relax a little.

"This property isn't for sale. Get out of here."

Wiggins ran. Not like the guilty, but the terrified. He tripped over one bag, barely cleared a second, and tripped again over a third. Peter would have laughed, had his heart not been racing so hard.

~WC~

THURSDAY

Kristin was standing where Neal had stood several hours ago, staring as ice blue moonlight made apparitions of rooftops and steeples below. She had been crying for a while, ever since they left the brownstone on Lenox. Even the beauty of Thursday or the dramatic view proved ineffective to assuage her tears.

"I can't believe we're doing it again - running," she said as Neal stepped up behind her and proffered her a cup of herbal tea.

"Here," he said. "This might help you relax a bit."

She took it, but without a word of thanks or show of delight. Neal remained beside her for a beat or two, but watched the activity going on around them.

Peter was near the elevator with Jones and Diana, bringing them both up to speed on the prior events at the brownstone. He had called Elizabeth to make certain that she, June and Sara stayed away and safe behind locked doors and by the phone until further notice, just in case the nervous little realtor was part of an advance team for Hauser with a well rehearsed cover.

Mozzie sat combing through the evidence from the envelope surrendered by Kristin, looking for any angle they could exploit to flush Hauser out of hiding and apprehend him. He was in his own world – a heavenly (or hellish) domain of conspiracy theories and malevolent machinations where only he stood between the iron fist of oppression and the world. He also enjoyed a generous helping of gluten-free brownies and he worked.

Neal's self-appointed duty was to help Thursday's newest temporary residents unpack their overnight bags and get acclimatized.

"I thought it was over, finally," lamented Kristen, "I thought we were safe. But here we are again."

"I promise you, it will be over soon," said Neal in his most soothing voice. "Trust us. Trust Peter. He's the best."

"He's the one I remember from before. The one who arrested Linus the first time. You really think he'll be able to do it a second time?"

"He caught me twice," Neal confessed. "No matter what happens, you can trust Peter with your life. I do. And that doesn't come easy for me."

"What did he do to you?"

"Peter?"

"No," she said softly. "Linus. I can see it in your eyes. He did something horrible to you, didn't he?"

Neal looked away. He hadn't thought about it for hours. He'd been so wrapped up in the suddenness of the case, in the running, the protecting, the planning, that he hadn't had time to remember Hauser's brutality toward him. He'd also forgotten for the moment that the woman who stood before him was partially responsible for his sufferings. It was her ruse to protect her son that provoked Hauser to come after Neal, after all. He didn't know whether this forgetfulness was a healthy sign of moving on, or a way of sublimating. He made a mental note to present that conundrum to Dr. Leslie in their next session.

"Mr. Caffrey…?"

Neal shook off his dark reverie and refocused his attention on Kristin.

"_What did he do to you…?"_

There seemed to be fear in her question, as if she were too afraid to know.

Neal told her. Everything. From the kidnapping, to the beating, to the drugging, to the night Hauser dumped him on the street, sick, starving and strung out. Tears fomented in Kristin's eyes as he relayed the events. Once he finished, she covered her face and cried.

"Why? Why would he do this to you?"

Neal swallowed hard, but the lump that had formed in his throat would not budge. "Because…" he began, weighing his words carefully. "Because…he wanted me to suffer…the way he believed your son did. He wanted to destroy me, and Peter, the way drugs had destroyed Daniel. He believed your con – that Daniel had died, and he held me personally responsible for it."

"Dear God…I'm sorry," she said, over and over. "I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Neal said, hoping to sound reassuring, hoping to eventually believe it himself.

"What he did to you was my fault…"

"You were only trying to protect your son the best way you could. You couldn't have known."

Neal was surprised to realize that he actually meant it. She was responsible, but she never intended such insanity to be visited upon him.

When finally she composed herself, she awkwardly asked, "Do you still...are you still…using?"

"No," he said. "I'm in recovery. Thanks to Peter, Mozzie, and my friends. I have a long way to go, but I'm clean. And I hope to stay that way."

"It's good to have people in your life you can count on. Maybe…you think…"

"What?"

"Never mind," she said, wiping away streaming tears with the backs of her hands. "Forget it. It's stupid."

"What?"

"I couldn't ask. We've done enough to disrupt your life. I don't even understand why you're helping us."

Neal couldn't agree more, but he was also curious. Where was this going?

"Tell me."

"I was wondering…if it wouldn't be too much trouble…if you could, maybe, talk my son. He's having a real hard time with his recovery. And honestly, so am I. I mean, he's still a kid, you know? He doesn't fully understand what he's doing. He wants to just numb out, not feel afraid or angry or anything anymore. Who could blame him? But I don't know what to say to him anymore without sounding like a…_parent_. He says I'm just being judgmental, that I don't understand him. He swears he's not using anymore, that he's sticking to the program, but I know he's lying to me. If he could talk to someone…someone other than me…someone who's been there…I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"I don't know what I can say to Daniel to help him, but I'll see what I can do," Neal promised. "Soon as the right opportunity presents itself, I'll talk to him."

~WC~

"Guys, I'm not saying it's a bad idea," said Peter, "I just don't like Neal being at the center of it. He's been through enough."

"If you have a better idea, I think we'd all like to hear it," Mozzie said. "Neal is the only person in this room who could pull this off successfully."

"Frankly," said Neal, "I think Mozzie's con is elegant."

"Elegant… Jones? Diana? Would either of you like to weigh in? Who's with me on this?"

"I actually think it sounds like it could work, boss," said Diana. "Neal can handle it. I vote we go for it."

Jones nodded. "Works for me."

"So, run this by me again, Mozzie."

"Listen carefully, suit," Mozzie said as he stood, animated and enthusiastic to share his idea again.

"Using the information provided from the former Mrs. Hauser…I propose Neal steals Linus Hauser's customers away one by one."

~WC~

The activity in Thursday had finally died down. Jones sat outside in Peter's car keeping an eye on the building exterior. Diana sat facing the elevator, fully armed and prepared to take out any unauthorized personnel who found their way up the recently disabled car.

Kristin lay atop the Neal's bed, dozing fitfully, fighting against guilt and tears.

Daniel sat hunched over in a corner, against a wall, ear buds firmly inserted and listening to tunes on his mp3 player.

Peter hovered nearby while Neal and Mozzie worked out some of the more intricate details of the con. When they decided they'd worked the plan enough for the night, Mozzie retired to an overstuffed chair to rest.

Peter sat down at the table across from Neal, pushing papers and used coffee mugs out of the way.

"You look tired," Peter observed.

"So do you."

"I can't sleep. Too much coffee. Too much on my mind."

"Same. Not the coffee part. She wants me to talk to Daniel. Apparently he's having tough time keeping clean."

Neal spied the boy in the corner, rocking back and forth to music only he could hear.

"You going to talk to him?"

Neal drummed his fingers on the table. "I don't know what to say to him."

"Tell him the truth. Tell him what you know, what you went through. Beyond that, you'll figure it out."

"It's a little weird, don't you think? If he weren't dead…supposedly dead…none of this would've happened."

"But it did. So…"

"I'll talk to him."

Silence for a beat between them.

"Tomorrow morning," Peter said, "I want you to go come to headquarters with me."

"Peter…" His eyes were wide with trepidation.

"I want Hughes to know what's happened, and what we're doing. If we succeed in luring Hauser back to New York, we're going to need the bureau to back us up. I want Hughes's stamp on this, or I'm going to put the kibosh on Mozzie's 'elegant' con."

Neal looked at his hands as a diversion. Everything in him screamed to keep it all secret. But it seemed as if everyone who meant anything to Neal already knew. There was no longer any point to being secretive. So he nodded his reluctant consent.

Peter didn't notice. He had anticipated Neal fighting him on it, so he continued to state is case.

"I know, I know you think it's a terrible idea, but think of it this way: If Hughes gives us his personal blessing, not only can we depend on the bureau's resources, but we won't run the risk of Hauser getting away on some legal loophole, or walking out of jail again. We'll nail him, and we'll put him away for good this time, and…"

"Peter..."

"Neal, you're not listening to me…"

"Peter…I am listing. I'm agreeing with you."

"You are? You are. Good."

"I will say I'm a little nervous about walking into the headquarters."

"Don't be. No one knows, so no one will judge."

Peter stood and patted Neal's back. "Get some sleep."

~WC~

It was 8:05 a.m. when the elevator doors opened, depositing Neal and Peter outside the bureau office. The smell of the carpet, the feel of the cool air blowing on him from the air conditioning unit, the sound of the "ding" of the elevator…everything combined to create the brief illusion that all the time Neal spent away hadn't actually happened. There was no kidnapping, no needles, no Hauser. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine that life was just as it had always been. But Neal knew better.

He froze as Peter reached for the glass door leading into the office pit. One of the things Neal always liked about the office was all of the see-through glass (metaphorical, symbolic, he mused, of the transparency of the good guys, as if to say they nothing to hide). Neal always knew before entering who was there, and what to expect from them. Now, he simply felt exposed.

"You okay?" Peter asked.

"Yeah," Neal said quickly, unconvincingly.

Peter held the door opened and Neal slipped through.

Everyone turned to stare.

"Hey, guys," said Neal.

They were polite, friendly, welcoming, these agents he had sat among for the last four years. Some came to shake his hand. Some patted him on the back, or offered their fists for a quick bump. Others, tied up with phone calls or inundated with paperwork, waved congenially and returned quickly to their work. But no one stared, pointed, or demanded he should leave. None of the things he feared would happen had happened. At least not yet. He attributed this to the fact that none of them knew about his addiction. Once they knew, once the word was out…

Before he could further process this, he noticed Reese Hughes standing on the mezzanine above them, hands on his hips, his face like stone.

"You ready for this?" Peter asked.

"Ready as I'll ever be," said Neal.

They took the steps up to Hughes' office.

~WC~

Neal sat almost rigidly, like a boy called before the headmaster of a school, terrified that one more infraction, like bad posture or an odd expression, would mean corporal punishment or permanent dismissal.

"You've lost weight," Hughes noted.

"I call it the Hauser diet," Neal said.

Peter shook his head. "Reese, we're here because we need your help."

"What did you do now, Caffrey?"

Peter spoke quickly before Neal could. "Linus Hauser…how'd you like to nab him before the other bureaus get the chance?"

"I'm listening."

They explained it all to him, and watched as Hughes sat stoically, a finger laid against his cheek. At one point, as Neal and Peter explained the degradation the CI had to bear, Hughes closed his eyes, and they remained closed for a few uncomfortable moments. Neal hoped he hadn't fallen asleep, but realized he simply had reached saturation point – Neal's situation had affected him more deeply than he could have imagined.

When Peter and Neal finished, Hughes rose and stood with his back to them, looking out of the window.

"So what's your plan? How do we get Hauser?"

Peter smiled. "Neal is going to steal his customers away."

"Excuse me?"

Neal scooted forward, energized. "I'm going to contact a few choice names on the list we intercepted from Kristin Chandler, and entice them to change suppliers. When Hauser finds out Nick Halden is responsible for his sudden loss of business, he'll return to New York, intent on finishing the job he started with me, then we'll nab him. Sir."

Hughes nodded. "Neal, would you mind stepping outside." Not a request, but a gentle command.

Neal stood, straighten his suit and gave Peter a hopeful look before stepping outside and wandering down the steps.

"Reese…"

Hughes turned to Peter. His face seemed pinched, worried.

"Give it to me straight. How is Caffrey?"

"He's good. He was a lot worse. But he's getting better, everyday."

"He's completely off heroin?"

"For well over a week, yes."

"A week," he repeated, rubbing his chin and making his way back to his desk to sit. "Why didn't you come to me, Peter?"

"Neal insisted on keeping it quiet. I only went along with it because I was afraid the kid would bolt. I didn't want to risk it."

"You were wrong, Peter. I don't like it when my agents lie to me, or keep secrets from me. How do I explain the use of bureau resources to fund your private little rehab clinic?"

"We never touched a cent..."

"You used Jones and Barrigan. That counts."

"You're right, Reese. And if you want to file charges, or take disciplinary action against me, you are completely within your right to do so. I won't protest. But understand this: I wouldn't change a thing. Neal Caffrey has saved the bureau millions, not to mention quite a few lives – mine included – and that is not an exaggeration. He's responsible for the department's ninety-four per cent conviction rate and he's put his life on the line more than most of us combined. He's one of us. For better or for worse, he's my friend. And if I were given the choice of doing a little wrong to make a right for his sake, I'd do it again. Sir."

"May I speak now?"

Peter took a deep breath and sat back, awaiting his reprimand.

"Is he under medical supervision?"

"Yes."

"He'll need counseling."

"He's seeing a psychologist. Leslie Coyne."

"Dr. Leslie? The radio shrink. Hm. And I want him in a program."

"He's more than willing. Once Hauser is in our custody."

Hughes knit his fingers together and stared at Peter for a few uncomfortable moments. Peter mused all the times he had done the same to Neal.

"All right," said Hughes. "But listen to me…we do this by the book, or I shut you down. You work out of this office. And I want Neal under constant supervision. He has access to nothing without your permission, and I give you permission first. Is that clear?

"He will submit drug tests, once a day, until this case is closed. If he so much as eats a poppy seed bagel, he's out, and so are you. Neal doesn't go running off half-cocked, he does not masquerade as an agent, and if I so much as suspect either of you are lying to me about any aspect of this operation, you're both going to be busboys for Burke Premiere Events, because you'll never work for the bureau again. Are we clear?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now… Don't screw this up. You keep a tight rein on Neal. And you bring me Hauser. Then we'll talk about Mr. Caffrey's future with the Bureau."

"Thanks, Reese," Peter said as he stood, smiling. "You won't regret this."

"I better not."

End Chapter 13.

Sorry, no cliffy, but I hope you'll still want more. Thanks for all of your exceptionally kind comments and for sticking with the story, especially for allowing me to step outside of character for a bit to examine "what if." Keep the hits coming, and please, if you're moved at all, please review. Thanks!


	14. Chapter 14

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 14

By

Lacadiva

_Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to his mighty coolness Jeff Eastin. _

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

~WC~

**Transcript of various FBI recorded conversations:**

_R.T. : "Who is this, and how (expletive deleted) did you get this number?"_

_NEAL CAFFREY (N.C.): "The question you should be asking is, 'what can Nick Halden do for you that Linus Hauser couldn't?' For one thing, he promised you extreme anonymity, but the mere fact that we're conversing right now demonstrates his inability to deliver."_

_J.J.M: So what can you do for me, Nick Halden? And why would I want you to?_

_N.C.: You're awaiting a back order on a few imported items particularly favored by certain, shall we say, urban rivals…_

_J.J.M.: Yeah…so?_

_N.C.: So, what if I told you I can have them to you in a week?  
><em> 

_S.B.: You can do that?_

_N.C.: That's why they call me the magic man. That's why a third of Hauser's customers belong to me now. He couldn't keep them happy. I can._

_S.B.: How?_

_N.C.: By cutting out the middleman, which cuts costs considerably for you. Your shipment doesn't sit in warehouses for weeks while palms are being greased. _

_R.T.: I don't believe you. Nobody's network is that good. _

_N.C.: If Linus Hauser were handling your situation, I'd completely agree. But Nick Halden guarantees you safe, secured delivery. No loose ends. _

_J.J.M: Yo, if you're really all you say you are, dog, how come nobody ever heard of you till now?_

_N.C.: You've never heard of me because I'm a ghost. Unless I'm doing business with you directly, I do not exist. Hauser's on five most wanted lists, including the FBI's, Interpol, and Homeland Security. I am not. He has to move in the shadows. I am the shadow._

_S.B.: Okay, so, say we do this thing. How much are we looking at?_

_N.C.: I like to keep my prices competitive, but for you, and only you, I'll give you, say, twenty percent off. Limited time only._

_R.T.: What if Hauser contacts me? What should I tell him?_

_N.C.: Tell him whatever you want. Tell him Nick Halden says 'hi.' But while Hauser's working on his deep tan in the Mediterranean, I'm working my butt off to get you the best deal possible on the items you need to handle your business. Now you can go with Ban de Soleil, or you can go with me._

_J.J.M.: Sounds too good to me. You know what they say when things sound too good._

_N.C.: You're right. There's always a risk. But what's life without taking a few risks? I could make the same offer to you competitors. There are at least 40 such, shall we say, "clubs," on the NYPD watch list to choose from. I'm sure they'd be happy to get their hands on what I've got._

_J.J.M.: Yo, hold up, hold up! Don't get crazy…_

_R.T.: Let's say we do this…let's say I drop Hauser and go with you. How does it work? What do you need me to do?_

_N.C.: Nothing. You're the customer. It's my job to please you. You just sit there and let my people do the work. _

_R.T.: I'll need some assurances…_

_N.C.: Perfectly understandable. Ask Hauser if you want. Call him! He'll verify my credentials, but I can't guarantee he won't be upset that you're changing camps._

_S.B.: Hauser may come knocking on my door. He's like that, you know. Vindictive as the day is long. I can't be looking over my shoulder everywhere I go…_

_N.C.: Hauser is too much of a coward to show is face in this city again, much less this country. And if you talk to him, you can quote me. If he does come back, my people will take care of him, and that's a guarantee._

_R.T.: Okay…let's do this._

_# End recording #_

~WC~

Neal removed the headset and took a deep, cleansing breath. Conversation after conversation, consisting of nearly four straight hours, had left him dry-mouthed, exhausted and desperately in need of coffee and food. He insisted on taking no break until the last scheduled call was made and someone was on the hook. Four takers out of ten was a not a personal best for Neal, but the bureau was happy. More importantly, Peter was happy.

Burke removed his own headset and put a supportive hand on Neal's shoulder.

"You did good."

"Thanks, Peter."

Jones ambled over, extending a fist for a bonding bump.

"Smooth as ever, Caffrey," Jones said. "I'm getting food. I'll bring you back something."

"Appreciate it," Neal said, just above a whisper.

Several agents on the team, weary from hours of sitting, listening and note-taking, took the opportunity to stretch their legs and wander off.

"Now we wait," Peter said, "and see who contacts Hauser. Feels like old times…"

"Yeah," said Neal with a weary smile. "Just like old times."

"Okay, what's going on with you?"

"Nothing. Just a little tired."

"Neal, don't…after everything we've been through, don't try to lie to me now."

Neal stood and stretched, rubbing out the kinks in his aching shoulder muscles.

"What's worrying you?" asked Peter.

"I'm just thinking…what if this backfires?"

"Hauser won't get a hold of you again. That is a promise. I'm not letting you out of my sight until this is all over and Hauser is behind bars."

"I'm not worried about me, Peter. What happens if he goes after Mozzie, or Sara, or you?"

Peter stood and stretched, hoping to communicate a lack of anxiety. In truth, the same thoughts had been parading through his own imagination, stirring up discomforting images of Elizabeth and other members of his "crew" in peril at the hands of Hauser.

"Don't you worry," was the best encouragement the agent could muster, for himself as well as for Neal. "This will all be over soon, and life can get back to normal."

"Maybe for you," said Neal, absently rubbing his arm and catching himself. "I'll be taking drug tests the rest of my brilliant career. Speaking of which…"

Neal opened a drawer and removed a manila envelope. From the envelope he shook out a small white sterile cup wrapped in cellophane and replete with warnings and special handling instructions.

He looked as if to say something witty before leaving the room, but in truth, Neal could find nothing funny about his situation, so he merely walked out, leaving Peter to brood in the wake of his silence.

~WC~

After a brief respite to eat and attempt to relax with a hot, mildly sweetened latte, Neal returned to his headset and resume making calls. The more who knew about his supposed coup, the better the chance that somebody would go straight to Hauser with the information.

It was after eight, and outside the crystal clear bureau windows, fog was creeping in, creating a milky shroud enveloping the darkness. Neal stood at a window absently watching as the mist moved eerily under beams of street lights.

Most of the team as well as the other agents on the floor had gone home for the night. Neal remained, as did Peter, Jones and Diana, hoping to pull together alternate plans of attack should Hauser make contact in the next few days. Peter kept in constant communication with Elizabeth, checking in at least every thirty minutes to ensure her safety. Elizabeth, in turn, was keeping tabs on June and Sara, so that none were left vulnerable to the twin demons of chance and mayhem.

"Anyone heard from Mozzie yet?" Neal inquired. It was Mozzie's job to keep an eye on Kristin and Daniel at Thursday.

"He's not due to check in just yet," said Jones. "You know how the little guy is. I'll give him ten minutes, and then I'll give him a call."

"Oh, he'll love that," Neal said facetiously, smiling to himself.

Just at the point where Neal had decided that he was no longer able to concentrate through his exhaustion, and as Peter had proclaimed the day over and offered Neal a ride back to Thursday, the cell phone rang. The one Neal had been using to place the calls. It could have been any of the potential "customers" calling back to change their minds, up their orders, or outright cancel.

Neal checked the caller I.D. display on the phone. He felt a chill run through his wracked, fatigued frame. _Unknown_, it said. _Unknown_. No one should have had this cell number except the parties contacted. And only they could have passed the number on.

He didn't want to answer it. He let it ring, three times, four times. After six, it would rollover into the voice mail the bureau set up in case they missed a call. Neal had even recorded the message himself, using his most cheery voice.

As if they could be heard, Peter silently and anxiously gestured to Neal to take the call. Jones quickly sat before the computer to prepare the triangulation program to trace the caller's locations. Diana stood over Jones' shoulder to listen and assist if needed. Peter clamped a hand on Neal's shoulder and nodded.

Answer it.

Neal pressed the call button and listened for a beat. His heart felt as if it was pushing through his chest, trying to abandon his body. His breathing was ragged, his throat suddenly dry as sand. He tried to calm himself with the idea that this could be a wrong number, a back-side pocket dial, a telemarketer. But he knew better. Though the call was on a speaker, open for everyone to hear, he still brought the headset to an ear and held it there.

"Hello?"

Silence on the other end. He could hear that the line was open, but no one spoke.

"Hello?"

Neal quickly hung up.

"Neal!" shouted Peter. "What are you doing? We need time to trace the call!"

"Trust me!" Neal shot back, then turned his attention back to the phone. "He's less likely to think he's being traced…he'll call back…"

Silence.

"Neal…"

Caffrey stared at the phone. Willing it to ring. Willing it not to ring. Either way, he fought to have the courage for whatever happened next.

It rang again.

He let it ring. Three times, four times. He engaged, and tried to sound irritated.

"Who is this?"

"Hello, Neal."

The sound of Hauser's voice detonated an avalanche of emotions. Terror. Grief. Despair. Anger. Humiliation. He felt his hands shaking.

"Hauser…"

"You remember my voice. I'm flattered."

"Bet I know what you want, too."

"So, these disturbing allegations I've been hearing, they are true?"

"Who's your daddy? You take from me, I take from you," Neal said with such vehemence he surprised himself. "I'm hanging up now."

"You need to hear what I have to say, Neal. It's important to your survival."

Neal looked to Jones - _how was the trace coming_? Jones shook his head – _nothing yet_. Neal verified it by sight. From where he sat, he could view the laptop screen; the blue color bar indicated that the program running was only at twenty per cent, which meant that Neal needed to keep Hauser on the phone much longer. He didn't know if he could.

"I'm listening," he said, and waited for Hauser's hellish voice to continue.

"I'm curious…I know you are an intelligent man with a great many talents and resources…"

"Now I'm flattered…"

"…but how on earth did you manage to get hold of my list?"

"Found it on e-Bay," Neal said. "Guess I was the highest bidder."

"You have no idea what you have done."

"I think I do. _I'm ruining you, Linus. Just like you ruined me_. Only, unlike me, your friends are going to come after you and kill you. Because when I'm done, I'm going to make sure everyone knows that Linus Hauser is responsible for their names being leaked to the press. You won't last a week on the streets when that hits the fan."

Then Hauser laughed. The sound of it reverberated painfully through Neal. He closed his eyes, fighting back the post-traumatic effects of that laugh. His wrists began to ache. The healing injection sites on his arm seemed to burn. As nausea whirled in his belly, threatening to expel everything within him, he brought a fist to his tightened lips as if to hold it back. Sweat broke out over every inch of his body. Neal sat back as if to stand and flee. But Peter was there, his hand still firmly on Neal's shoulder, supporting him, keeping him faithfully anchored to reality. He hadn't even realized Peter was still there until now, and he was grateful.

Neal took a deep breath and refocused his attention on the task at hand.

"I must commend you on your rather bold confidence scheme," Hauser continued. "As you are obviously in no real position to supply merchandise to my customers, I surmise that your plan, in addition to 'ruining me,' is to take their money and run. That is your modus operandi, is it not, Mr. Caffrey? Running?"

"You got me," Neal said, hoping to sound flippant. "I guess old habits are hard to break."

"Speaking of habits…how is your newest one?"

"Up to about two hundred bucks a day," he lied, "thanks to you."

"I find that surprising."

"What's so surprising?"

"I assumed you'd put a bullet in your own head long before now. It seems I rather underestimated you."

"Yeah, Hauser, you did. I'm a survivor."

"Yes. Like a rat in a sewer. You take what you can get from the garbage on the streets and scurry back to sewer to consume it in the darkness. I may not have succeeded in killing you before, Caffrey, but I promise you, I will this time."

"You'll have to find me first. Come and get me."

"I'm working on it."

And then the line went dead.

Neal threw the headset down as if it were burning his hand. He rubbed his face and sat back, hoping no one could see how he was trembling.

Peter spoke, his voice low and reverberating. "Jones…please, tell me we got him."

Jones tapped a few keys and stared hard at the screen.

"We got him, Peter."

"Where?"

"He's here."

All turned to Jones, stunned.

"Where?"

"Plaza Hotel."

~WC~

They feared Hauser would be long gone before they arrived at the Plaza, and from what little information they could gather, it appeared they were right. No one fitting Hauser description had checked into their hotel. However, a member of the wait staff at the champagne bar thought he may have recognized Hauser as a patron, remembering that the man left what the staff member considered a meager tip.

As much as Peter wanted to tear the place apart and search every inch of the luxury facility, it was mutually decided that there was little they could do until morning, so all reconvened at Thursday to rest before planning their next move.

~WC~

Once back, Mozzie, who was showing signs of cabin fever from remaining inside so long, wanted to take the opportunity to race out to tend to undisclosed personal, pressing business. Peter protested, but was met with the usual paranoid diatribe about the abuse of those in authority. He relented, advising Mozzie to be extra cautious.

Thirty minutes later, Peter was on the cell to Elizabeth, speaking in hushed tones, reassuring her that all would be well. He had volunteered to pull the first watch, but Neal talked him out of it, and encouraged Peter as well as Jones and Diana to sleep at least three hours. All were thoroughly exhausted from the events of the last few days.

Kristin occupied the bathroom, taking a long therapeutic bath in attempt to relax after hearing the news that Linus was back in New York. Daniel did what he always did – sat with ear buds plugged in deep, rocking back and forth to dark, gothic rock.

Neal knew he would not be sleeping this night. He'd felt so wrecked by the events of the day that he placed a call to Dr. Leslie the moment he arrived. Unfortunately, she did not answer. It was only logical, as the hour was late. When given a prompt to leave a voice mail with the promise of a returned call, Neal simply disengaged the call.

Now he stood staring out of the massive window, wandering how close Linus Hauser could be. How would he react if they confront one another? So many differently scenarios had played out in his imagination since his ordeal began, all of them ending with Hauser prostrate and bleeding before him. But what would truly happen? Would it be Neal on the ground bleeding? Would he fold, stricken by a paralyzing bout of post-traumatic stress, trapped and unable to defend himself or take his much-deserved revenge against Hauser? Would Neal be the Neal of old, able to slip out of any situation and triumph over it, or would he be the weakened Neal who gave up freedom, bypassing the key to the elevator for the venomous contents of a hypodermic needle?

He lowered his head and rubbed his weary eyes until it hurt. When he opened them, he was startled to find Daniel standing before him.

"You okay?" Daniel asked.

"I should be asking you that," said Neal.

Daniel merely stood there, entranced by the view and silenced by adolescent embarrassment. He looked as if he wanted to leave, but something was holding him there.

"My mom told me," Daniel confessed. "She told me about what my dad did to you. I hate him. I seriously hate him."

What do you say to something like that? Neal thought.

The kid moved closer to the window, so he wouldn't have to look at Neal. "She said I should talk to you."

The silence between them was long and discomforting.

"How'd you kick it?" he finally asked.

"Pain. Friends. I know it sounds a little cliché these days, but you just have to say 'no.' Get comfortable with not being high."

"Yeah, that's what my mom says…." He almost sounded disappointed.

"Maybe she's right, then. You keeping to a program?"

"I stopped going. It's boring."

"So go somewhere else. Just don't get fooled into believing you can handle it all by yourself. That's what kept me running for two and a half months. Thought I was smart enough. All my best thinking got me was deeper down the rabbit hole."

"They say stuff like that in program. Where do you go?"

"Right now…nowhere. But I will be. Looking for a place. Maybe I can hang with you. You can be my unofficial sponsor."

"Seriously?"

"That okay with you?"

"I guess."

A long silence again between them again.

"Don't put him in jail."

Neal turned to the teen. Did he still have feelings for his father?

"You can't lock him up. He'll just get out again, and come after us. _If you want to stop him, you have to kill him_."

"Daniel…"

"I know….he's my father and all…but he never loved us. He just hurt us. Bad. The things he did to my mom were crazy. And the things he did to me…"

He turned to Neal now, tears in his suddenly prematurely aging eyes.

"The only way to stop him is to kill him. If you don't kill him, I will_. I swear I will_."

"Don't talk like that. Let the FBI…."

"No! You don't get it. If he did what he did to you, what do you think he'll do me when he finds out I'm alive?"

"We won't give him the chance…"

"You don't know that! You don't know anything."

"DANIEL!"

It was Kristin, dressed, hair still damp from her bath.

"You know I'm right, mom!"

With that, the boy angrily and hastily retreated to his corner to plug in his earphones and return to his gothic rock world without this particular pain.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Caffrey. He's so confused…"

"It's okay. I understand exactly how he feels."

"Unfortunately, so do I." Kristin shuddered, fighting her own muddled emotions. "The sad truth is he's right. But it's not the kind of thing you can ask the good guys to do, is it? You should sleep in your own bed tonight, Mr. Caffrey. I can take the floor. God knows I've done it enough times while we were running."

"Forget it," said Neal, then hurried to clear a few things off the bed. "There you go. All yours."

"Thanks. I asked Mozzie earlier, but he didn't seem to know…I can't find my gun. Do you think your Agent Burke may have confiscated it?"

"It's possible. But I'm sure he would've said something first."

Neal looked to where Peter sat. He had dozed off already, head down on the table. "I'll ask him in the morning."

~WC~

He hated electronica, but it seemed that the majority of the clubs with which he still did business insisted on assaulting their patrons' ears with it. This club, _Anthropology_, operated underground, and was doing phenomenal business this night. The dance floor was packed with gyrating, sweating, stoned and flirting individuals seeking quick, short-term euphoria anyway they could. The bartender was hastily doling out apple martinis and imported beers and constantly clearing out his tip vase.

Linus Hauser pushed through the crowd, not particularly mindful of anyone he may have shoved or toes he may have crushed. Such was the hazards of club life, let them deal with it.

He made his way to the back room, knocking the customary three knocks, followed by two. He heard, even over the pounding, monotonous beat, the locks being disengaged. The security man at the door made sure to look and see before allowing Hauser to enter the small, dark office, then relocked the door behind him.

Hauser was happy, happier than he should have been, after the events of the day. He had come up with several possible ways to punish Neal Caffrey for his latest damage and insult. Nothing seemed to fit the crime – what could he do to make Caffrey suffer in the worse possible way? He was upset until his good friend, the manager of the club had called to say his people had found "the little guy."

"Good evening, Mr. Haversham…"

Mozzie was still groggy, still not sure of where he was. One moment he was hustling toward Columbus Circle, and the next, he was fighting against unconsciousness. Someone had hit him, hit his head. Hard. Now he was in some musty smelling back room, his hands tied to an ancient office chair. And he knew the moment he heard the voice of the man standing over him, it could only be Linus Hauser.

"…I'm hoping you can help me find Neal Caffrey."

~WC~

Neal was dreaming, for the first time in weeks, quite peacefully. He saw himself arm in arm walking with Sara through Manhattan. They were laughing. She clutched him a little tighter, head resting on his shoulder. And then there was shouting.

The voices were not a part of the dream. They came from somewhere outside his subconscious. Neal awoke quickly and noticed that there was a bit of a commotion in Thursday. He hadn't meant to fall asleep; indeed, he had believed he was far too tense to relax enough to slumber. He was wrong. The early morning sun indicted him, and the activity swirling around him was unquestionably his fault.

Peter was at the elevator. Jones and Diana were quickly donning jackets and shoes, checking guns, preparing to leave. Kristin was nervous, crying, shouting, trying to get past Peter to the elevator.

"What's happening?" Neal pleaded. "What's going on?"

"It's Daniel," Peter told him. "He's gone."

Neal put it together quickly. "He's going after his father."

"Yeah, we think so too," said Peter.

"And he has my gun," Kristin said through her tears.

End Chapter 14

Thank you so much – pushing 30,000 hits! I cannot begin to believe it. I'm sure there are stories out there that have done way, way more, but this is a personal best for me, _and I'm so grateful_ _to everyone!_ Please, if any part of this story pleases you at all, I hope you will respond with a review.

You're invited: _January 17__th__! January 17__th__! January 17__th__! I'm throwing a White Collar party! We're having tasty deviled ham sandwiches, a very nice halibut with a mango chutney, and lattes! Lots of Lattes. Enjoy the winter premier, everyone, and see you next Friday!_


	15. Chapter 15

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 15

By

Lacadiva

_Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to his mighty coolness Jeff Eastin. _

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

ANTHROPOLOGY

'How appropriate,' Mozzie thought as he was being dragged by two gangly men in trendy garb, inside what he recognized – even from the alley entrance – as Club Anthropology. What better name for a night club, where humans freely relinquished all inhibitions through mind-altering substances and ritual dance to more courageously prowl for a conquest? Mozzie mused. Even in the haze of semi-consciousness, the bespectacled little man was ever analyzing, questing, exploring the world around him, in search of an angle. Mozzie was never a patron of the club. Indeed, he doubted he could ever, without Neal's help and much conniving, get past the mountain-sized bouncer. However, as was his duty as a man of resources and knowledge, he knew plenty about the club. Though right now, as his head throbbed, his vision fought to clear, and as his ears continued to ring at a most irritating pitch, he wished he had never heard of the place.

"I apologize for the manner in which you were brought here," the tall, elegant man in black said as he placed a clump of damp towels to the small injury on the back of Mozzie's head. "I also apologize for that." He gestured, meaning the repetitive thrum of electronic music filtering through the walls and causing a subtle vibration of small things on desktops.

"Linus Hauser, I presume," Mozzie said, voice still absent of its normal strength or volume.

"I'm flattered."

"You're reputation precedes you. I wouldn't be."

"Then you already know I am a very serious man, and I do not suffer fools lightly."

Hauser tossed the wet clump of towels to the floor, then indicated to the two wiry young men who dragged Mozzie in to leave. Once they were gone, Hauser rose and poured himself a drink from the club owner's personal stock and sampled it.

"Not bad. Did you know, Mr. Haversham, that the word 'whisky' comes from the original Gaelic, meaning 'water of life?'"

"Of course," said Mozzie.

"May I pour you a glass?"

"I seriously doubt that alcohol goes well with minor head injuries, so I would have to say no, thank you."

"As you wish."

Hauser pulled a second metal office chair forward, placed it directly in front of Mozzie and sat.

"So, let us move this along, shall we?"

"That would be prudent," said Mozzie, "as I have things to do."

"You have but one thing to do that matters at the moment, Mr. Haversham, if you wish to remain among the living. You must tell me where I can find Neal Caffrey."

"I wish I could," he said, feigning anger as convincingly as possible. "As soon as the Feds clipped his tracking anklet, he suddenly grew wings and flew off. To him I say, 'good riddance.' If you should find Neal, you tell him he still owes me a…well, just tell him he owes me."

Linus stared unblinkingly at Mozzie for what felt like an eternity. He smiled. And then he hit him across the jaw.

Mozzie's head snapped back, and the dizziness and nausea he thought had subsided with the return of full consciousness was now threatening to return.

"That was a warning," said Hauser between clenched teeth.

"Look, you can beat me, shove bamboo shoots under my finger nails and stick hot poker-like…things…in horribly uncomfortable places…or…not. But it won't change anything! I don't know where he is! Besides, I can't help you find him if I'm dead!"

"And why would you help me find him?"

"I said it before. He OWES me. A helluva lot. And I'd like to recoup whatever I can before you have your way with him. A small price for my cooperation."

"So, we're bargaining now, are we?" Hauser stood and returned to the wet bar to refresh his drink. He could see the main floor from a cloudy two way mirror. The throng was beginning to thin out. The hour was growing late.

"Common sense says never believe a confidence man. Ergo, I am not inclined to believe you, Mr. Haversham."

"What do you have to lose by trusting me? Nothing. What have I to gain by lying to you? Nothing."

Mozzie let that thought linger in the air a bit.

Hauser moved back to the vacant metal chair and kicked it violently across the room, sending it crashing into the wall. He leaned menacingly over Mozzie, face so close that the smell of single malt on Hauser's breath, and sweat mixed with expensive cologne assaulted him. The little man's stomach began to turn, not just from Hauser's odiousness, but from pure fear. The fury in Hauser's eyes was unmistakable and inescapable.

"If you are lying to me, if you are in league with Caffrey in the slightest, I will make you suffering in ways no person should. You see, I am highly motivated and fully committed to the goal of killing your friend, and I am not inclined to be merciful to anyone who gets in my way. Tell me, Mr. Haversham, are you afraid of me?"

Mozzie nodded.

"Now, that was honest. Stay that way, and you may live to recoup your losses. Now, tell me, how do _we_ find Neal Caffrey?"

~WC~

MORNING

"_NYPD has been notified…"_

"_He couldn't have gone too far…"_

"_Please, you have to find him…_

"_His description has been sent…"_

"_We're pulling together inter-agency search teams…"_

"_Find him before he does something he'll regret!"_

Neal barely heard the cacophony of voices and ringing cell phones. His mind was reeling with strategies, angles and possibilities. Where would the boy have gone? How would he even know where to look for his father? And would he actually attempt to kill Hauser if he found him? It was all too difficult for Neal to contend with. His head was beginning to ache as he considered all the things that could go wrong. All because he fell asleep.

"It's not your fault," Peter kept reassuring him. Neal deeply begged to differ.

Worse, no one had heard from Mozzie in several hours. There were no text messages, no voice mail messages, nothing from Mozzie to indicate why he had failed to check in or return to Thursday. Only one thing could keep Mozzie away, Neal feared.

"Hauser's got him," he told Peter, feeling his gut clenching from abject fear. "I'd bet my life on it." What would Hauser do and how far would he go to make Mozzie talk?

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Peter said, hoping to allay Neal's concerns. "Let's give him another twenty minutes to check in…"

"We may not have twenty minutes, Peter! Look, I have an idea. Knowing Moz, if Hauser has him, he'll tell him about Thursday before he has a chance to torture him…"

"You think he'd break that easily?"

"No! Just that Moz is smart enough to know that we're smart enough to realize he's gone, and clear out of here! He'll use it to stall, pretend he's cooperating, buy himself some time. We need to get Kristin to a safer place."

"We'll take her to headquarters. She'll be safe there."

Kristin, who had been pacing the hardwood floors anxiously since Daniel was discovered missing, stopped cold when she overheard Peter.

"No…I'm not leaving. I'm not going anywhere until we find my son."

"Kristin," Neal said in his most comforting voice, "I think I know how to find him."

Peter's raised eyebrow conveyed his skepticism. "How?"

"Something Daniel and I unfortunately have in common."

The silence between the three of them was grave and harsh.

Peter looked at Neal imploringly, fear adding lines to his face.

"No, Peter," Neal spoke quietly, just between them, "I don't want to use…but Daniel might. Something tells me he might want to use first, to fortify himself, to prepare himself, maybe even talk himself out of whatever he's decided to do to his father. At least, that's what I would do. Or..."

Neal borrowed a cell phone from Jones and quickly dialed.

"Dr. Leslie, it's Neal Caffrey. Sorry to wake you, but I need a couple of addresses…it's an emergency."

While Neal culled information from Dr. Leslie, Kristin quickly shoved a few items into her overnight bag, and searched Thursday for Daniel's few scattered belongings.

Once done with the call, Neal grabbed a suit jacket and donned it quickly.

"Wait, Neal, where do you think you're going?" asked Peter.

"To find Daniel. You find Mozzie…"

"I've already given a full description of Daniel to NYPD. Let them do their job."

"He'll run, Peter. Just like I would've."

"Then I'll go, I'll find him."

"You find Mozzie. He needs you. You find him, you find Hauser."

"What makes you think you can find the kid?"

"Two possibilities. One, if he's going to use, there's only one person who works this territory. Just so happens he was my connection, too."

Peter cut Neal off before he could reach the elevator. "There's no way I'm letting you do that!"

"I'm not going to _buy_ from him, Peter! Just ask a few questions. If you want, I'll take a drug test as soon I get back to headquarters."

"I don't like this," Peter protested, working hard to control his burgeoning anger. "Hauser's out there with a bullet with your name on it…"

"I know, Peter, I get it. But I have to do this."

"What's the second theory?"

"There's one other place Daniel might go. It's too early to find out,"

"What? Where?" Kristin asked anxiously, hopefully.

"Just let me check it out first." To Peter, Neal implored, "Trust me."

Peter dug into his jacket pocket. "Here, take my cell. Check in with me at headquarters every thirty minutes. If you miss one check in…"

"You'll go dragnet on me, I got it."

He gave Peter's arm a confident squeeze, then a quick hug to Kristin before stepping into the elevator.

~WC~

Neal had waited anxiously on this corner nearly once a day for months, hiding in the shadow of tall buildings, hoping Blondie had not forgotten him, or had not been arrested or otherwise taken off the streets.

_Shivering, sweating, itching, his gut clenching and muscles seizing, fidgeting…waiting anxiously…_

He drew a deep breath, thankful that that particularly agonizing time was behind him. But he could not help but shudder; the memories were not old enough to be easily forgotten. They were etched into his psyche, like initials forever carved into the flesh of an ancient tree. He still remembered with bitter, aching clarity what it felt like, every aspect of his addiction. He felt dizzy, felt sweat beading up on his forehead, and let his back rest against the filthy brick wall. Maybe Peter was right; maybe he shouldn't have come. _Too soon. Too soon for this. _

"_You will_ _almost certainly always crave,"_ Dr. Leslie had said. Her words continued to haunt him now, resonating in his brain like the lyrics of a hated song that can't be easily forgotten. He shook his head, ran a hand through his hair. Was he craving now? Was that why his palms were damp, his hands shaking so, and why he was feeling short of breath? Was it just anxiety, memories in his bones being rekindled, reawakened by this infamous place where he stood? Or had the monster been merely lying dormant, hibernating, waiting to be stirred back to insidious life? _Did something inside him still long for the haze_?

"Yo, Nick!"

Neal turned quickly at the sound of his oft used alias, at the sound of a notoriously familiar voice.

Blondie was dressed in his customary faded jeans and leather jacket. His blond hair was as long and frizzy as it was when Neal had first met him and followed him back to an abandoned building to…

Neal shook his head again, forcing back the bombardment of memories, forcing himself back on task.

"Whoa, man…look at you! You's look GOOD!" said Blondie, rubbing the straw-like soul patch dangling from his chin. "Nice threads, too!"

"I need your help, Blondie."

"Sure, man, whatever you need. I got everything! Running a special on oxy…"

"All I need is information."

"Sorry," he laughed, "I don't do information."

"A kid, sixteen, tall, black tee shirt with white skulls, same _motif_ on his skate board…"

"Same _mo-what_?"

Neal ignored the interruption. "Blond hair, red tips. Have you seen him?"

"I see a lot of people, man. Part of the job..."

Neal took a deep breath, fighting the urge to hit the drug dealer in the face.

"It's a matter of life and death."

"Isn't it always?" Blondie said with a snort and a snicker.

"I need to find him before he does something stupid."

"Hey, nothing personal, Nick, but I wouldn't get very far as a business man if I made it a habit of rattin' on my customers, know what I'm saying? So unless you's buying…"

"Did you sell him anything?"

"Look, Nick…"

With all his might, with all his anger, with every ounce of pain mustered and reborn as strength, Neal shoved Blondie powerfully up against the wall. As the scrawny, terrified pusher made violent contact with brick, Neal saw, tucked into the waist band of Blondie's jeans what looked to be Kristin's gun.

Neal relieved him of the weapon quickly and shoved it under Blondie's chin.

"Hey, man! Easy! Easy!"

Neal was trembling. He thought of every time Blondie had cackled at him, or kicked him when he was down – literally and figuratively. How this callous and cruel stick of a man would withhold, or suddenly jack up his prices beyond what Neal could afford, or make him jump through hoops just to further humiliated Neal in the midst of his suffering. He'd taken Neal's money, promising to return within an hour, only to return a day later, while Neal was in crushing pain. Blondie often claimed to be 'the only one in the world who truly cared' about Neal, while constantly looking for ways to use, abuse and take advantage of him. He even tried to pimp Neal out once, promising him free works if he'd do one little "favor" for a "business associate" with a particular fondness for big blue eyes. Neal walked away. The consequence: a night spent in the hell of withdrawal. Albeit a lesser hell than if he had traveled down Blondie's road…

He hated everything Blondie represented and considered how easy it would be to rid the world of this menace with one bullet, delivered point blank.

Then he thought of Peter, who, if he were standing by, would remind him, _"This isn't the way. You can find justice in the system, Neal…"_

And then he remembered Daniel… _Stay on task…_

"The kid," Neal pressed him, "_this_ was his gun."

"He didn't have any money, so he traded the gun. So what?"

"Where did he go?"

"I didn't ask him! I gave him what he wanted and he ran off. Probably somewhere noddin' off."

Neal grabbed Blondie by the front of his leather jacket and threw him to the ground. He stashed the gun behind his back, shoving it in his waistband.

"You're crazy!" Blondie yelled, remaining on the ground. "I sending a few of my boys after yous…"

"Do it!" Neal yelled. He was trembling with fury, battling against his desire to kick and pummel Blondie into unconsciousness. Instead, Neal stalked off, breathing harshly through clenched teeth, in search of Daniel.

~WC~

He had checked every dark alley and doorway within a quarter mile, every possible place a person might go to indulge in his particular drug of choice in unobserved gloom and private. While he had run into many individuals in the middle of their early morning dosing, none of them were Daniel. He'd called in to Peter once already to inform him of his progress, or lack thereof, and hung up on him deliberately when the agent repeatedly pleaded for Neal to come back to headquarters and let the cops take charge of the search.

Neal had considered only one other possibility, but he couldn't investigate that lead until eight o'clock. He checked the time on the cell phone Peter had given him, and saw that he was already five minutes late. He hoped with all his heart that he was right as he sprinted across the street in search of the address Dr. Leslie had given him.

The church was an old stone building that was beginning to crumble, but it had remained standing, unchanged by urban renewal even as other buildings came down to make way for fancier, loftier edifices. Neal entered through a side door, as the handwritten paper sign taped to the locked front door had suggested, and took the stairs down to the basement level. A turn to the right brought him to a double set of doors. Neal stopped, hoping, praying that Daniel would be on the other side of the doors. He pushed and entered as quietly as he could, hoping no one would notice or turn at his presence.

The hall was big, with high ceilings, and smelled of ancient dust, wood floor polish and coffee. Grime-coated windows high up gave a milky iridescence to the bit of sunlight pouring through from street level. There was a table with a tall coffee urn, the little red light indicating that the beverage inside promised to be plentiful and hot. It was surrounded by white foam cups and little baskets filled with all the desired sweeteners and powered creamers, stirrers and small napkins squares. There was a plastic platter that was once no doubt heaping with donuts of all varieties; only three remained of a bed of fallen sprinkles, unwanted or simply not yet claimed. Neal's stomach rumbled at the sight of the sugary confections, reminding him that it had been too long since his last meal.

_Stay on task…._

He looked to the front of the room where several dozen wooden folding chairs had been arranged in rows. Quite a few chairs were empty. Neal sought out the ones that were full. He saw men and women in business attire, gym/yoga/workout gear, or wearing simple jeans and tee shirts. Many looked to be in their mid twenties to early thirties, while a few here and there were quite likely sixty or a little more. All listened attentively as a woman, clutching expensive pearls that rested on her neck, announced her name, followed by, "I am an addict." Everyone greeted her in unison. While it may have been a convention of this style of meeting, Neal felt a sense of warmth at the sound of their unified voices. It sounded like she _mattered_.

And then Neal saw him.

He was sitting in a chair off to the side, hunkered down, as if trying to blend in with the drab surroundings, as if either in deep repose, deep prayer or just plain hiding. Neal saw the skate board standing/leaning against the kid. He would rock it back and forth every now and again, as if it brought him some strange comfort.

Neal's first instinct was to race to Daniel and bid him to leave, go with him to FBI headquarters for safety's sake. But as Neal's attention turned back to the woman's sharing, her struggle, her victory, her fear of returning to the needle, he knew it was important that Daniel remain and listen.

_And_ _that he should also remain and listen. Just listen. Not own, not speak, not judge. Just listen._

Neal half-filled two foam cups with steamy coffee and approach the empty chair next to Daniel. The kid did not look up, not for nearly a minute. Neal was satisfied to simply sip his coffee (not the best, but better than the swill the bureau usually offered) and allow Daniel to discover him in his own time.

The woman finished her share and sat, and others around her supportively applauded. Daniel sat up, moving to shift his position, when he noticed Neal.

"How long you been there?" the kid asked.

"Not long."

Neal proffered Daniel a coffee. He turned his nose up and shook his head. Neal didn't take offense; he merely poured it into his own cup and slipped the empty under the full cup.

"What did I miss?" Neal asked.

Daniel merely shrugged, the way the young did when there was no way to adequately satisfy and adult's query.

"I didn't use, if that's what you're thinking," Daniel stated flatly.

"I didn't come here to accuse you," said Neal. "But I'm glad you didn't. You got it on you?"

Daniel reached down into a deep pocket on his baggy black jeans and palmed a small packet of power. He passed it surreptitiously to Neal, like passing note in grade school.

"Take it," Daniel whispered. "I was gonna, I wanted to so bad... I came here first. I guess I wanted some kind of sign. Guess you're it."

The packet was like fire in Neal's palm. He dropped it on the floor and ground his heel into it, until the plastic broke and the powder inside was smeared and pulverized, becoming as filthy gray as the layered dirt on the old hardwood floor. Neal found that quite satisfying.

"It may sound stupid, or uncool," said Neal, "but I'm proud of you. Takes strength, courage to come here instead."

Was that a smile he saw tugging at the corner of Daniel's mouth?

"It's cool," he said, finally sitting up straight and giving his attention to the room. "My mom send you?"

"She wanted to come herself," said Neal. "She's at FBI headquarters. No way Hauser's going to try anything there."

"She's gonna kill me. I traded her gun," he confessed.

"No you didn't," said Neal. "I got it back."

Another smile. "Thanks, man."

They kept silent and listened for the rest of the meeting. Time went quickly. When the members were asked to stand for the serenity prayer, Neal hesitated. Not that he wouldn't pray, but he did not want to be "mistaken" as member. An addict.

Daniel stood. Only then did Neal rise. No one was watching, judging, accusing or pointing.

"Keep coming back," the Facilitator, a man with soulful brown eyes and soft waste line encouraged them all after the prayer. "It works. But you gotta work it."

With that, everyone dispersed, some leaving immediately, some remaining to talk, finish off the coffee, or help stack chairs and place them in corners.

Neal took out Peter's cell and checked the time. It had been well over an hour since his last check in. No one knew yet that he had found Daniel. He tried to make the call, but reception in the basement of the church was non-existent. He also noticed that the low battery warning was flashing.

"We need to get out of here," Neal said as he guided the skateboard-toting Daniel out of the room and up the stairs to street.

"Tell me" Neal said once they stepped outside, "were you planning to go after your father or was the gun just for trade?"

"I wanted to go after him," the boy confessed. "But I didn't know where to start looking. I tried to remember some of the places where he used to hang out when I was a kid, but that was so long ago."

Neal smiled, and decided not to dispel the teens' notion of time.

They hailed a cab and hopped in. Neal realized he didn't have any money on him, but knew Peter would have someone at the bureau take care of the fare once they safely arrived.

"FBI building," he told the Driver, who signaled with a thick, beefy arm, then hit the meter.

Once the cab got moving, Neal closed his eyes. But he could not yet relax. Not until Daniel was safely delivered back to his mother. Peter, he imagined, would no doubt read him the riot act for not checking in as promised, but he assumed that once he saw that Daniel was safe, all would be forgiven.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

Traffic was a snarling mess, car horns blaring in lieu of choice profanities. Nothing was moving, and had not moved for quite a while. Neal checked the phone. It was nearly ten, more than two hours since Neal's last check in. Peter would not only be livid, but no doubt had begun to send out agents to find them, dreading the worst.

"Driver," Neal asked, "you mind if I use your cell?"

"Yeah, actually, I do. I got limited minutes…"

"This is an emergency."

"Everything's an emergency. Last guy ask for my phone pulled a gun on me and took my fares. I ain't stupid enough to go through that again."

Neal couldn't fault the guy…he did, after all, have a gun, though he had no intention of using it to rob the Driver. He had no choice but to sit back and endure the drive.

Minutes clicked by fast; the meter, of course, clicked even faster. Time was being devoured by the intensity of the traffic jam, pushing his anxiety level ever higher. Neal began looking about, hoping to find a place where the Driver could escape the stalled lane and get them to safety. He was irritated to find that all lanes were bumper to bumper. It could go on this way for hours.

He reasoned that his nervousness was due to the fact that they were within a short half block of Thursday. The security and protection it once offered was no longer existent, now that Mozzie was supposedly in danger. The only card he could conceivably play was giving up Thursday. Neal hadn't exactly become sentimental about the place, but he knew eventually he would grow to miss the view.

Since the vehicle wasn't moving, Neal opened the passenger side door to see what he could see over the hoods of other vehicles.

"Hey!" the Driver shouted as Neal stuck a leg out.

He ignored the Driver and strained to discern, through a sea of yellow cabs, bikes and a few limos, what was causing the nasty snarl.

"It's a bus," Neal reported. "Looks like it's stalled or it may have hit a cab, or…"

Ice instantly replaced blood, coursing through him, threatening to stop his heart cold. It beat furiously, trying to do its job, overcompensating, threatening to explode. Dread and fury made him shudder, made him shake. He felt the pull, the desire to run after them, to attack. Another part of him begged him protect the boy. He had to make a decision. Fast.

Neal ducked back quickly into the cab, slamming the door shut.

"Get down!" he ordered Daniel."

"Why?"

Rather than waste time explaining, Neal grabbed the kid by an arm and pulled him so that his head rested below the back edge of the seat.

"What is it?" the boy cried. "Is it him? Is it my father?"

"What's going on back there?" the Driver demanded, peering at his rear view mirror.

Neal pulled the gun from his waist band, keeping it hidden from the Driver's view as he quickly checked the clip. It was full. He was satisfied.

"Is it him?" the boy ventured again, afraid to hear the answer, already knowing what it would be.

"It's going to be okay," was all Neal said.

Daniel's complexion had faded to a ghostly white. Neal didn't know, but so had his.

Neal peeked out of the passenger window, keeping his head low.

It was him. It was Hauser.

He was holding Mozzie roughly by an arm, urging the little guy across the wide street, zigzagging between stopped cars.

Heading towards Thursday.

"Driver," Neal said, fighting to keep his voice steady, "This boy is a material witness in a federal case involving terrorism and attempted murder. You get him to FBI headquarters as fast as you can. You escort him inside personally. DO NOT LEAVE HIM ALONE. You got that?"

"You're a fed?"

"Yeah," Neal said, just to move things along. "You take him directly to Agent Peter Burke. The bureau will generously compensate you for your service."

Daniel grabbed Neal by his sleeve. "I wanna go with you."

"No," he said pointedly, a little too harshly, then, "I need you to get to Peter and tell him to come to Thursday as quickly as possible."

He looked up at the Driver's hacker's license. "Mr. Rinaldi, I'm confiscating your phone." He held out his hand.

The Driver huffed reluctantly, but gave up the phone, pulling it from his ample backside pocket and dropping the body-warmed device into Neal's hand. Neal dialed and gave the ringing cell to Daniel.

"Ask for Peter, tell him what's happening. Promise me you won't leave this cab until you get to safety."

Daniel nodded. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to save Mozzie."

Neal practically leaped out of the cab, driven by adrenaline, made dizzy from the realization of his torturer's immediate proximity. He sprinted quickly across the street between cars, heading for Thursday.

FBI HEADQUARTERS

Peter was bringing Hughes up to speed on the investigation, detailing for him all the morning's events and postulating all the possible strategies and outcomes. He was distracted, pacing back and forth before Hughes, constantly looking to his own office and to the main floor just below for some sign of Neal. Why hadn't he called in?

"When was the last time you heard from Caffrey?"

"Almost two hours…."

"I hate to say it, Burke…"

"Then don't. Don't say it."

"Your boy has a problem."

"I don't think that's it!"

"Don't be so naive, Peter!" Hughes said. "You knew this going into it. You knew what you were dealing with. Addicts are the worst at…"

"HE'S NOT…."

Peter backed down, rubbing his worried, exhausted eyes, and shoving his hands into his pockets.

"All right," he acquiesced. "You're right. It's a possibility, but I don't think that's what it is."

"He went to see the very man who supplied him with drugs…"

"I don't think he's using again. Something's happened, Reese, and I'm willing to bet it's Hauser. I need to go find him."

"Go, go find him. But be prepared."

Before Peter could depart, Diana knocked quickly and opened the door, not waiting for permission. She held a phone out to Peter.

"It's Daniel," she announced.

Peter practically snatched the phone from Diana. He listened, his face frozen in an expression of despair.

The worst had indeed happened.

"Okay, listen to me carefully," he spoke into the phone. "You stay put. I've got agents on the way to bring you in. You let me worry about Neal, understand?"

Peter turned back to Hughes. It was important that he know, "Caffrey spotted Hauser by the safe house. He's gone after him."

Reese gave a gesture – not so much a dismissal but a way of giving his blessing to whatever Peter deemed necessary to do.

~WC~

_Hey Joe, where you going with that gun in your hand…_

The lyric resonated and repeated in Neal's mind as he stood inside the shaky, ascending elevator. The air seemed to grow thinner as he grew closer and closer to the penthouse.

_Hey Joe, where you going with that gun in your hand…_

With the memory of the song came every dark image Neal had been trying mightily to forget. But he fought back the debilitating recollections with little success: the feel of the cold metal cuffs biting and twisting into his flesh; the horrible pressure of the needle piercing his skin, puncturing his vein…

_And that aint' too cool…_

Hauser's thin-lipped smile, his self-righteous pontificating, his shallow regret and vague, self-centered remorse for being an absentee dad…

He couldn't wait to tell Hauser his son was alive…and wished his own father dead.

_Hey, Joe, where you gonna run to now…_

The elevator door opened…

_I'm going way down south, where I can be free…_

A burst of white light from a bright hot sun blazing from the massive window. Neal shut his eyes to protect them, but only for a moment…

_Ain't no hangman gonna put a rope around me…_

When he opened them, Mozzie and Hauser were standing a short distance before him. Neal aimed, his finger slick from nervous sweat, lightly touching the trigger. Ready to shoot.

"Hello, Neal."

"Let him go," Neal warned.

"Or what?" asked Hauser, almost teasingly. "You'll shoot me? Put the gun down, Neal, or your little friend dies."

Neal smiled. Hauser was bluffing. He didn't even have a gun!

"Mozzie!" Neal cried. "I got him, let's go."

Mozzie didn't move. Wouldn't move. Neal noticed the fear on his face and saw that his bottom lip actually quivered just a bit.

"Moz…?"

"Show him," Hauser ordered Mozzie.

Moz unbuttoned and opened his shirt with trembling fingers to reveal a heavy black vest.

It was fitted with explosives.

"Shoot me," Hauser warned, holding up a small detonator in his hand, "and we all go together."

END CHAPTER 15

Wow, thanks to all of you for reading, and for over 31,000 hits! Please review if you liked this at all.


	16. Chapter 16

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 16

By

Lacadiva

_Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to his royal hipness, Jeff Eastin. _

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

_Music Note: Listen to White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army" while reading if you like._

From Chapter 15:

_Moz unbuttoned and opened his shirt with trembling fingers to reveal a heavy black vest._

_It was fitted with explosives._

"_Shoot me," Hauser warned, holding up a small detonator in the palm of his hand, "and we all go together." _

_~WC~_

Words failed Neal, abandoned him, left him astray with nothing more than to shudder wide eyed at the dreadful image of his friend in peril. His mind felt as empty as Thursday appeared to be, now that it was devoid of all evidence that the place had ever been inhabited. The furniture was gone. Neal's bed was no longer there. June had apparently worked quickly to have the place empty out so efficiently.

The vest bomb appeared at first glance to be rudimentary and quite probably easy to disarm. But getting close enough to Mozzie to disable it quickly was the only true obstacle before him. One move, one false step and Hauser would not hesitate to detonate the device, and the last thing Neal would see before dying would be his friend being torn asunder.

"Now, Mr. Caffrey, I need you to lower your weapon, and step off the elevator. Slowly, please."

An odd tingling flushed through Neal, jarring him internally, causing him to almost stagger. He awkwardly complied by lowering his arm and taking an unsure step forward. He heard the elevator door closing behind him and thought to himself that his fate had also just been sealed. He closed his eyes for a second to pray and envision Peter on the way to their rescue. But a dark voice inside his head chided him for his fruitless optimism, destroying his last sense of hope. His careless, uncalculated attempt to save Mozzie had only brought him back to the man who would be their executioner. Neal knew, felt it in his bones that someone was about to die.

He was determined that it would not be Mozzie.

"You know what else to do," Hauser said with an oily smile, motioning with the detonator – a small black burner phone that was keyed to activating the explosive device.

Neal placed the gun on the floor and kicked it to Hauser. The weapon spun and clattered as it slid across the shiny hardwood floor. It bumped Hauser's right wingtip and stopped dead before him.

Hauser crouched down to retrieve the gun, never taking his eyes off of Neal.

"Curious," he said. "You look oddly fit for a man with a two hundred dollar a day heroin habit. It seems I've underestimated you, Caffrey. I expected you to be dead. Preferably from a self-inflicted bullet wound to the head."

"I'm happy to disappoint you," said Neal. He looked in turn to his friend. "You okay, Moz?"

"In a word, no…" Mozzie said quietly, as if afraid the tenor of his voice might be enough to trigger the vest.

Hauser was suddenly and strangely distracted by the gun in his hand. He gave it a curious look from every angle, hefting it in his hands.

"Where did you get this?" he asked Neal.

"From the gun fairy," Neal quipped. "Why?"

"It's funny…I seem to recall once owning a gun like this myself."

"Not unusual," Neal interjected nervously, "considering you sell guns for a living."

"No-no-no-no-no," Hauser almost sang. "Not 'like' this one. _This gun_."

He smiled now, nodding his head.

"Of course…"

Hauser looked at Mozzie, then to Neal, smiling as if he had finally figured out the answer to some exhausting, irritating brain teaser.

"Now all the pieces begin to connect. I forget that I am in the presence of two amazing confidence men. This very gun, I remember, was delivered to me the day before my wedding anniversary…fourth, no, fifth. Forgive me, I don't remember which one. You see…here…" he said holding the gun up, "the tiny nick on the handle. I distinctly remember killing the man who damaged this piece in the shipping process. That also explains how you were able to obtain my confidential client list. Kristin obviously took from me…and gave to you. Tell me, how were you able to convince her to further betray me?"

Neal wanted so desperately to tell the truth, that Kristin herself had offered the list; that she had begged him to use it to help put her sorry, much-reviled ex-husband away for life. But Neal knew he had a duty to protect her. And Daniel.

"I wanted revenge, a way to destroy you," said Neal as convincingly as he could. "I tracked her down. Broke into her house. Found the list. The gun was a bonus. I stole them from her."

Hauser laughed, menacingly so, deep in his throat. "Tell me, how is Kristin? Is she seeing anyone?"

"I didn't stick around long enough to find out," said Neal.

"You never saw her?"

"No."

"Pity. She's a very fetching woman. Daniel favored her, mostly around the eyes…"

"Fortunately," Mozzie chimed in before he could stop himself, "he doesn't have your mouth."

Time froze.

Neal lowered his eye, lest Hauser see the truth hiding within the blueness.

Hauser turned angrily to Mozzie, holding up the detonator as a menacing reminder of his absolute control.

"My son Daniel is dead," Hauser said. There was actually an infinitesimal fraction of genuine hurt in his tone. "You do not have the right to speak about him."

Neal thought it imperative to regain Hauser's attention, shift the focus back to him, before the maniac discovered the truth about his son. He also knew that as long as Hauser was focusing his anger not on Mozzie but on him, he had a better chance of keeping his friend alive.

"You got what you wanted, Linus. You got me," Neal said, almost pleadingly. "I'm the one you want. Let Mozzie go. You can do whatever you want to me. "

"Tempting," said Hauser. "But as long as I have your little friend here, I know you will be compliant."

"You want my compliance? Take that vest off of him and put it on me. Just let him go. Please."

Neal could see - Hauser was considering it. Instead, he reached inside his jacket pocket.

"I have something else in mind for you, Neal. I rather have my heart set on it."

He removed a silver-metal case, the very same one that once contained the monster.

~WC~

Daniel disengaged the call and tossed the cell into the front seat beside the Driver. He had done what Neal asked, he had told Agent Burke exactly everything Neal had instructed. Burke ordered him to sit tight and wait for the police to appear.

_But what about Neal? _

Daniel knew that he was, after all, partly responsible for his unstable father's vendetta. If Daniel had not gone along with the subterfuge, had not agreed to the faking of his death…

"What'd they say? They gonna take care of my fare?" the Driver asked.

Daniel wasn't listening. He didn't want to listen to anyone. He wanted to get out. He needed to do something.

He wanted to see his father.

"Hey, kid, I'm talking to you!"

Daniel grabbed hold of his 'board, opened the cab door and swiftly dove out.

"Hey! Hey, kid! Come back here! Sunnova…"

Daniel raced off, following the same erratic direction through stalled traffic he had just seen Neal run moments before. As soon as he got to the corner, he recognized the area and instantly remembered where the obscured entrance to Thursday lay. His heart was thundering in his chest. His hands were shaking, and his face was feeling hot and flushed.

What would he do when he saw his father? What would he say to him? He felt thoroughly divided, trapped between two desperate, completely polarizing desires.

One part of him – he blamed it on blood, genetics, family – harbored a deep and undoubtedly futile hope that the man would see his son and have an immediate, radical change of heart. He'd fall to his knees and beg his son's forgiveness for every word screamed in hostility and anger, every insane act of violence against him and his mother, and every sin committed against society. He'd promise to make it up to them, do the right thing - turn himself in to authorities and take his punishment. Be a man. Take responsibility. Be a father Daniel could speak proudly of again someday.

He'd say, _Son…I love you. Forgive me..._

The other part of him knew his father would never change. The boy still carried deep scars – both mental as well as physical. Linus Hauser would never cease to be the same sadistic, arrogant, hateful individual as he was the first time he lifted an unprovoked hand to his son. He was evil. And he needed to be stopped.

He found his way inside and to the elevator. He faltered, finger hovering a breath away from the up button, terrified of following through. But he was more terrified of what would happen if he did not. Maybe, he thought – hoped! – if his father knew he was alive, he'd let Neal and Mozzie go, and he'd retreat back into hiding, and leave them all alone forever. Nobody had to die. His finger jab the button before he could stop himself, and the door slowly, dreadfully, rolled opened to him.

~WC~

Traffic was impossible. Peter could not bear to waste another moment inside the Taurus. According to police traffic reports, a serious accident was the reason why this main thoroughfare – the only route to Thursday – had been relegated to a parking lot. The thought of Hauser getting a hold of Neal again was more than Peter could endure. He held his lips so tightly, ground his teeth so hard, that his head was beginning to ache.

What would Hauser do to his friend this time?

And was Mozzie even still alive?

He knew several agents – as many as the bureau could afford to muster without leaving the place completely unmanned – as well as NYPD were being dispatched this very minute to Thursday, but he knew they would also encounter the same traffic nightmare, which would only delay their efforts to save Caffrey and Mozzie. In the meantime, Neal could be suffering in untold, unimaginable ways.

Peter's cell rang. He prayed it would be Neal. It was Jones.

"Peter! NYPD located the cab…Daniel wasn't there."

"I'm almost there…"

It occurred to Peter that he'd make better time on foot.

He also thought of Thursday and its huge, picture window with an unobstructed view of the city.

"Jones…We need air support. I want a helicopter…"

~WC~

Dread filled Neal, murdering his spirit as he fought to tear his eyes away from the silver-metal case. He didn't want what was in there, he didn't want what it offered at all, but he knew this was his only play. His life was the only acceptable currency he could exchange for Mozzie's freedom. And he was more than willing to pay.

Hauser pressed a tiny latch, and the spring-bound case flipped open, revealing one – just one – filled syringe. It sparkled in sunlight.

"Give it to me." Neal said, not really wanting it, but knowing he had no other choice but this. His mouth was dry and his throat felt as if it were closing up on him.

"No! Neal!" Mozzie cried out, forgetting about the explosives bound to his body, "you can't! You don't even know what it is!"

"It's okay, Moz…it's okay." He looked into Hauser's mad eyes.

Hauser smiled. "He's right…You don't know what it is," he said, referring to the syringe. "It could be anything. Extra high grade super premium heroin, for the best and final high of your life. Or, merely a bit of saline. Or drain cleaner. Or battery acid…"

"I don't care. Let Mozzie go, and I'll shoot up, right here in front of you, if that's what you want. No matter what it is."

"Neal…!"

"Shut up, Moz."

"No!" Mozzie insisted. "This is not a negotiation! I'd rather him blow us both up!"

"QUIET," Hauser shot over his shoulder at Mozzie, "or you may get your wish."

"Moz! Let me do this!" pleaded Neal. "After everything you've done for me…"

"I am so touched!" Hauser said, morbidly delighted. "That you would actually give up your life for this person…_again_!"

"What is he talking about?" asked Mozzie.

"Nothing," Neal said quickly, hoping to turn the focus back on getting that worrisome vest off of his friend.

"What's he talking about?" Mozzie insisted. "What does he mean, _again_?"

"The day I disappeared, Moz, the day they removed my anklet. Hauser's muscle confronted me. They had a kill order on you…they were going to shoot you if I didn't go along quietly…if I didn't let Hauser…"

"'Nuff said." Mozzie looked at Neal with eyes that no longer reflected a fear of death.

"Mozzie's been a true friend," Neal said quietly. "True friends are worth dying for. Something you'll never understand, Hauser."

Hauser placed the silver-metal case on the floor and pushed it with his foot toward Neal.

"Take the shot, Caffrey."

Neal stared at it. It was like a distant siren call. And just like in the stories, he knew that if he responded to the call, allowed himself to be pulled in, he'd be destroyed, smashed against the rocks, and all would be lost…

Neal removed his jacket and tossed it aside. He undid the shirt sleeve and rolled it up with trembling fingers. This was all rote to him now. But it didn't make it any easier to do.

"May I borrow your tie?" Neal asked Hauser, his voice low and devoid of expression.

Hauser smiled, happy to oblige. He unknotted and removed his tie and tossed it on the floor close to Neal.

Neal took the fine silk tie, wrapped it around his arm, pulled it tightly until it pinched, until the blood collected and his veins stood up fully engorged and ready. He took the taut fabric between his teeth and drew it even tighter as he dropped down on one knee and reached for the syringe.

Mozzie looked away, not wanting to witness the disintegration of Neal.

Neal aimed for a dark blue vein, and felt tears welling up in his eyes. He could barely breathe. He felt lightheaded and shaky, knowing this could be his last act on earth. What would his epitaph say? How would he be remembered? Thief. Con. Addict.

_Friend_?

What would Peter say at his funeral? Would he wistfully recall their past FBI stings and victorious take downs, their staggering, unparalleled 94% arrest rate and extraordinary team work? Or would he only remember the lies? _The treasure. The music box. Kate. The Antioch Manuscripts. The Raphael. So much more…_

Would Sara think him a coward or a hero? Who'd look after June, maybe dance with her to vintage songs to assuage the loneliness that occasionally dampened her joy? Never had he ever considered missing or being missed by anyone in his entire life.

Until now.

He held the needle just above the vein, a mere breath from piercing it. Life still begged him to hold fast to it. Don't give up. Try again.

He spat the tie end from his mouth, licked his dry lips.

"Take the vest off Mozzie first," Neal demanded, hoping this, his final play, would net him one last success.

"_After_ you take the shot," said Hauser.

"No, that's not how it works. The vest goes, Mozzie walks out of here, and I take the shot as soon as he's in the eleva…"

All three of them heard it. And froze.

The elevator was making its way back up. Someone had found them.

"Peter," Neal whispered, hope rising. But along with that hope came fear and dread. He saw Hauser quickly depress a button on the burner phone detonator. All he had to do was press "send," and it would all be over.

He couldn't save Mozzie or himself. But he could still try to save Peter.

"PETER!" Neal yelled at the top of his voice. He dropped the syringe, turned toward the elevator, his legs feeling as if they were pumping strenuously through molasses.

"PETER! GO BACK! GO BACK!"

He banged the heels of his hand against the elevator door as hard and loudly as he could.

"PETER, THERE'S A BOMB!"

The elevator kept coming. There was no way to stop it.

"MOVE AWAY!" Hauser screamed, aiming the gun at Neal.

Neal did. He turned and ran straight for Hauser. His only chance was to catch him off guard, wrestle the detonator from his hands, or at least distract him long enough for Mozzie to rip the vest off. Peter might see the commotion and retreat.

Maybe he could still save the day. Maybe he could…

BAM!

The sound of gunshot was harsh, deafening.

Searing heat sliced through Neal's shoulder. He heard the wet-snap of bone and flesh being rent by the bullet. He felt his shoulder being pushed back by the force of impact. But he righted himself and kept going, oblivious to the blood quickly staining his shirt, determined to do whatever it took to give Peter the time he needed to escape. Pain and panic were secondary concerns to his craving to ram his working fist into Hauser's jaw.

He crashed hard into Hauser and knocked him to the floor. Neal struggled to retrieve the detonator, to keep Hauser from pushing another button.

Mozzie acted quickly, trembling hands ripping away the many Velcro fasteners and peeling out of the vest. He panic! What would he do with it now?

Hauser, incensed that Neal would even attempt to attack him, fought back. Dirty. He rammed a fist into Neal freshly minted bullet wound. Once, twice, thrice.

Neal cried out…saw stars. The pain was all-encompassing, overwhelming. He shut his eyes tightly and he folded in on himself, clutching the woefully agonizing wound, fighting the nausea that threatened to cause an eruption of bile and acid. He was determined not to pass out, not to lose consciousness until he was certain Peter would be safe.

Hauser laughed as he triumphantly pushed Neal aside and stood on shaky legs, the burner phone still firmly in hand.

He pressed send.

"Take that!" Mozzie yelled, and triumphantly held the vest up high.

He'd done more than simply remove the vest. He had successfully detached the one wire that would send the deadly charge, igniting the explosive. He was grateful Hauser's bomb was not the most sophisticated he'd ever encountered, otherwise they'll all be blown to smithereens.

Hauser struck out with his gun-filled hand, nailing Mozzie across the jaw. His glasses flew off. He spun around, spitting blood, and hit the floor, unconscious, unmoving.

"Moz…" Neal managed, but pain would not allow him the strength to say or do much else at the moment.

Hauser tossed the useless phone away and held up the gun, ready to shoot whoever was on the elevator.

The door slid open.

Neal struggled to open his eyes, keep them open, and to pull his bleeding body from the floor. Mozzie needed him. Peter needed him.

A skateboard, riddled with gothic skulls and symbols, rolled from inside the elevator, across the hardwood floors, stopping only as it bumped the picture window, where Neal lay.

"Daniel, no…" Neal lamented.

Daniel had disobeyed him.

Hope had a eluded him again.

Neal pulled himself up to a sitting position, teeth grinding, felt blood profusely seeping from the battered wound. He leaned back against the glass and calmed his breath. He saw the skateboard again, and reached for it…

Hauser's eyes went wide and knees went weak when he saw that it was not Peter.

Daniel step off the elevator. Hauser took a step back, but would not yet lower the gun.

"Dad…?"

"No…it can't be…"

Daniel had dreamed of this moment so many times, with so many divergent outcomes. Which one would it finally be?

"Son…"

Hauser actually smiled. Daniel weakly returned it.

Then the boy saw Neal against the wall, bleeding…and Mozzie, faced down on the floor, bleeding.

He had not imagined this particular scenario before.

"What did you do?" he asked his father accusingly.

Hauser took a step toward his son, lowering the gun.

"You're alive… How?"

"What did you do to my friends?"

"Your friends?" Hauser laughed. "These are not your friends. They are the reason you…"

"I'm not dead. Everything you did to them, you did for nothing."

"They took me away from you. They made it impossible for us to remain together. They destroy our family."

"No. You did that, dad. You're the one who destroyed us."

"That's enough…" Hauser's face became frighteningly serious.

"You don't get to tell me when it's enough anymore, dad."

"So then, you're a man now? With your girlie hair and silly tattoos and your little skateboard. Tell me, what kind of man rides around on a _toy_? What kind of man shoots heroin and drops out of high school? What kind of man avoids his father by pretending to be dead?"

"It was the only way we could think of to get you out of our lives."

"We could make it for real this time, boy."

Daniel shook his head. He wasn't afraid. He headed toward Neal.

Hauser raised the weapon. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Neal is hurt. I'm going to help him."

"You can't help him. I can, though."

He pointed the gun at Neal, but kept his eyes on his son.

"I can put him out of his misery."

"NO!" Daniel shouted, and stepped right up to face his father. They were nearly nose to nose.

"Yes!" Hauser said, almost proudly. "Yes! This is the boy I've been hoping for. Not that sniveling little coward who used to cry and beg me not to hit his mother. I've dreamed of standing toe to toe with you, testing your strength, I push, you pull! Seeing how much you could take. But the drugs came between us."

"I'm clean now. I've been clean for months."

"Good. Addiction is terrible weakness. I'd have to beat it out of you."

"You could try."

"That's my boy," Hauser said, almost proudly. Almost.

Daniel looked away, caught a quick glance at Neal on the floor.

Neal was inching himself up slowly, as quietly as he could, his back against the window, his blood smearing along the glass. In his good hand, he was holding the skateboard.

Daniel looked back to his father, determined to keep his attention from what Neal was planning.

"I want you to come with me."

"Where?"

"Does it matter?"

"What about mom?"

"What about her? You're my son. She was merely the body you passed through. I'm your father. I want you with me."

Hauser reached out to touch his son's shoulder. Daniel pulled away.

"I see."

Hauser grabbed his son buy the scruff of the neck and pulled him forward.

Neal watched, his pain momentarily forgotten as he witnessed Hauser's brutality against his own flesh and blood. Neal struck out with the heavy skateboard and slammed it against the back of Hauser's head.

Hauser cried out, spewed a half dozen expletives as he face-planted hard upon the floor. His gun went skittering out of his grasp, and he reached up to touch a bloody gash made by one of the skateboard wheels.

Neal was quite satisfied, and slid back down on the floor, pain resounding through him as his rump hit the floor.

"Daniel," Neal managed, gasping, "check Mozzie."

Daniel was too busy staring flabbergasted at his semi-conscious father on the floor.

"Daniel!"

The boy jumped and turned his attention to Neal. He ran to Neal, unnerved by the sight of blood still oozing from the gunshot wound.

"I need you to check Mozzie," Neal said again, trying to smile through is pain, to help the boy cope. "Can you do that for me?"

Daniel nodded and quickly went to Mozzie.

"Check for a pulse," Neal said.

Daniel did, placing a finger to Mozzie's throat.

"Yeah, I feel it. Kinda strong. I think he's okay."

Daniel saw his father inching across the floor, reaching for the gun. The boy reached down and picked it up himself.

And aimed it at his father's head.

"No, Daniel!" Neal cried.

"Why not? Why shouldn't I?"

"_Because you don't want this memory."_

"Go ahead," said Hauser, taunting Daniel. "_Be a man."_

"Don't listen to him!" Neal begged. "Give me the gun."

"No, Neal," said Daniel, starting to cry, hand trembling. "I have to do this. I have to stop him, or he'll just keep coming back. He'll never leave us alone."

Neal changed positions to ease the pressure on his shoulder, but only succeeded in exacerbating the pain. He gritted his teeth and gasped, felt tears burning and threatening to fall.

"Neal!" the boy cried.

"I'm okay!" Neal lied. "I'm okay. Just give me the gun…"

"I can't."

Neal took a deep breath, hoping to fortify and stabilize himself, and pushed himself to his feet, using the window to keep him steady. He barely noticed as his fingers ran across blood slicked upon the glass. He took one step toward Daniel, hoping against hope to stay on his feet, to not pass out. Encouraged that he was still standing, he took another step, and another, until he was standing right beside Daniel.

Daniel refused to take his eyes from his father's.

"Look at me, Daniel," Neal pleaded. "Look at me."

Daniel obeyed, but kept his threatening stance over his father.

"You don't want to do this."

"Yes I do."

"No, Daniel…"

"Why not?"

"Because if you do, you'll be just as bad as he is."

Hauser laughed. "Altruistic bunk," he said with utter disgust. "You want to be a man? Shoot me. _I dare you."_

"Is that what you'd do, dad? Would you shoot me?"

"In a heartbeat."

That was all Daniel needed.

He lowered the gun and handed it over to Neal.

"Maybe you should've died in that alley," Hauser said.

Neal's own anger ignited. He aimed the gun right between Hauser's eyes.

"Move…please," Neal said with uncharacteristic rage, hoping for a righteous excuse to pull the trigger. Better he suffer the nightmares that come from such a violent act as this than the boy.

Hauser didn't move a muscle.

They heard the elevator come to life again. Neal knew it could only be Peter.

"Well, better late than nev…"

Hauser swept his leg under Neal's feet, knocking them out from under him. Before Neal even hit the floor, Hauser had reclaimed his gun. He stood, albeit shakily, and reached for the explosives-laden vest. He tossed it to Daniel.

"Put it on!"

Daniel stared uncomprehendingly at his father. _Would he really do this?_

"Put it on NOW!"

Neal saw and knew what was happening, but try as he might, he could not find voice to reassure Daniel that the vest had been deactivated. Blood loss had left him enervated, drained and teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

Hauser pointed the gun at Neal's head to convince Daniel to cooperate. "Put it on, now."

Daniel obeyed, not bothering to fasten the Velcro. It was far too late.

The elevator door opened.

Peter, Jones and two other Agents broke through, fanning out, aiming their service weapons, shouting.

"Tell them to stand down," Hauser screamed, "or I will detonate the explosive."

"Stand down!" said Peter.

"Thank you. Now, move out of my way. You are going to let us go down the elevator. If anyone should attempt to stop us, this bomb will take out a sizeable chunk of Manhattan. Surely, you'd wish to avoid such a thing."

Peter's eyes fell upon Mozzie, then Neal. Both looked to be in quite horrible shape. Neal was muttering, mumbling. The sight of so much blood made Peter hold his breath.

Peter looked up, and saw, over Hauser's shoulder, just outside the window, exactly what he was hoping to see. Peter needed to stall. He only needed a few moments.

"Before you go Hauser, you should know…the FBI's tough when it comes to terrorists who threaten this city. And personally, I'm tough on people who hurt my friends. Nobody's aiming for the kneecap. Give up now, before it's too late."

"I'm facing life in prison. I don't think so. Step out of my way, Burke."

"What I want to know is why didn't you come after me? I'm the one who spearheaded the investigation. I sent Neal in to trap you. I arrested you. Why torture Neal?"

"Because I could."

Peter loathed the way Hauser was regarding him. It was as if this narcissistic sociopath believed he had already won.

"Because I knew destroying Neal would eat away at you. Once he was dead, and as soon as your life returned to some semblance of normal, the next target was to be your lovely wife. Elizabeth, am I right? Keep looking over your shoulder, Agent Burke…"

"Actually," Peter said, letting a triumphant smile work its way to his lips, "I'm more interested in what's over _your_ shoulder."

Hauser looked perplexed. He turned to see...

A police helicopter was hovering right outside the window. A sharp shoot, high powered weapon in hand, leaning precariously out of the side door of the chopper, was aiming. Red laser light appeared and danced where Hauser could not see it.

Right between his eyes.

Peter moved quickly, leaping and yanking Daniel out of the way. Both hit the floor, Peter protecting the boy with his own body.

Glass spider-webbed as a hole was blown through it.

The bullet drilled through Hauser's forehead and exploded out the back. He was dead before he could understand what had happened.

Neal rallied enough to sit up partially. While the image outside the window was obscured by the network of cracks and lines, Neal could see that the sharp shooter was none other than Diana.

Neal remembered a promise Diana had made to him, when she first learned what Hauser had done to him. She had whispered into his ear, "I'm going to get Hauser…for you. That's a promise."

She made good on it.

~WC~

Peter quickly and carefully removed the explosive vest from Daniel, handing it off to Jones to dispose of properly and preserve as evidence.

"You okay?" Peter asked Daniel.

"Yeah…Neal's hurt bad, though. Mozzie, too."

"Don't you worry, son. We're gonna take good care of them."

Peter raced to Neal's side.

"Neal…Neal! Look at me."

Neal partially opened his eyes. They were clouded with pain and exhaustion.

Peter put his hands over Neal's wound and pressed down hard. Neal stirred, groaning.

"Where's Daniel?"

"He's fine."

"Moz…"

"He's going to be fine, too."

"My shoulder…"

"I know…an ambulance is on the way. It's over, Neal."

"'Bout time."

Neal finally gave in and let the rushing waves of darkness carry him under.

End Chapter 16

_So, hey, one more chapter to go, to tie it all together. Please, if you enjoyed this in the least, won't you srespond with a review. And thank you so much for reading. Here's to season four! _


	17. Chapter 17

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 17

By

Lacadiva

_Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to his royal coolness, Jeff Eastin. Someday I hope you'll read this. And I hope you'll be kind. Thanks for creating "White Collar" and giving us a new reason to appreciate Tuesdays and Fedoras._

_Note: Lyrics are from "Bittersweet Symphony" by the Verve, and "Letters From the Sky" by Civil Twilight._

_Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable._

The Final Chapter:

_Well I never pray  
>But tonight I'm on my knees yeah<br>I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah  
>I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind, I feel free now<br>But the airways are clean and there's nobody singing to me now_

NEW YORK PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL

Lights.

Bright, white hot flashes.

Eyes hurting. Body hurting. Throbbing pain. Aching cold…so cold.

Moving, and not moving. Floating.

Voices. Many voices, some yelling, shouting his name. Shouting unanswerable questions. Some speaking about him in low monotonous tones that made him wonder…

_Am I already dead?_

Dead and gone.

Somebody was counting…

"One…two…three!"

Hands and arms lifting him, moving him from one hard surface to another. Colder.

He wanted to tell them, 'be careful…I've been shot…'

Hands, touching him, some gentle, some not so gentle. Pressure. Pain. Something covering his mouth. Not hands. Something sending cool air his way.

He heard the snick-snick of scissors. Somebody was cutting his shirt, his pants…

'Stop…this is vintage!' He tried to say. But no one seemed to hear him or care. Cold air hit his skin, making him shiver.

Needles…

NO! Not again…_not again!_

_Piercing…invading…_sliding harshly into veins…

_Please...no…_

…tubes…bags…liquids…

Someone holding his hand. Squeezing.

From far away, someone said, "Stay with us, Mr. Caffrey."

_And where would I be going?_

"Stay with me…Neal! Neal! Can you hear me…?"

The voice began to fade.

Pressure in his chest, a massive pressure, making him panic. He felt himself diminishing….

Someone screamed, "CLEAR."

And then he dreamed.

~WC~

He was wearing one of Byron's classic Devore tuxes – midnight black with black satin trim along the lapels, with a black shirt and a shiny black skinny tie. High gloss, black wing tip shoes. He was sitting on an old wooden park bench in a white room that seemed almost radiant. His black fedora lay on the white floor far out of his reach.

"You going to put that on?"

He looked up. His mouth dropped. His wide eyes drank in the sight of his old dear friend.

"Hale?"

Neal moved to stand, but Hale gestured for him to remain where he sat.

Hale's suit was black, too, but his shirt and tie were both pristine white. A black cap sat jauntily to the side on his head. Diamond encrusted rings glinted blindingly in the light from both pinky fingers. Even in death, the man was impeccable.

"Hale," Neal said again. "What are you doing here?"

"That's what I came to ask you, Neal."

Neal shook his head.

"I don't…I don't know…"

Hale sat next to him, pinching his pant legs up and meticulously brushing invisible lint from the fabric.

"Maybe I can help you figure it out," he said. "You're done with the drugs, right?"

Neal nodded solemnly.

"Yeah, nasty stuff, that heroin," said Hale. "You hit it, now it's time to quit it. Don't ever mess with that stuff again."

"It was never my idea, Hale…"

"I know, kid. I know. Listen…you can't hang around this place too long. You've got to make a decision."

"I didn't know it was my decision to make."

Hale laughed heartily.

"Uh- huh…like you never forced a hand before!"

"This isn't exactly a street game of Find the Lady…"

"You don't think I know that, Neal?"

"I'm just saying…I'm tired, Hale. I'm really tired."

"People get tired. That's the human condition. "

"It's been a rough couple of years. Prison. Kate. Keller. Hauser…"

"Um-hmm…Life is rough..."

"I don't know what to do if I go back. Who am I, Hale? Who am I? And what am I supposed to do?"

"Ah, there we are. Now, we're at the truth of it."

Neal smiled. "I already have a shrink."

Hale laughed again, and slapped Neal on the back.

"I know. I saw her. Fine as wine, too. You going to ask her out?"

Neal laughed now.

"I might."

"I certainly would. Those little high heel boots…woo! Makes an old man feel young again!"

"I get what you're doing, Hale. You're trying to tell me I don't think I have anything to live for."

"What's it matter, what I think? You going to do your own thing anyway. You're Neal Caffrey. That's what you do."

Hale made a move to leave. Neal reached out reflexively, a hand the older man's knee to stop him.

"I don't want be alone…" he confessed before he could stop himself. He pulled his hand away quickly, feeling a flush of shame warm his cheeks.

"Yeah," Hale said, relaxing back onto the bench. "This place can be a little spooky. And who really wants to be alone? You stay here…I can almost guarantee you, you'll be alone."

"What is this place, some kind of purgatory for wayward conmen?" Neal asked.

"Nope. Just your subconscious messing with you a little bit. Glad to know I still mean something to you," said Hale, tipping his hat.

Neal smiled.

"So…there's no light to follow, no gathering of loved ones waiting to escort me…?

"I'm not gonna tell you that. I'm not gonna tell you anything! Why spoil it for you? You want to figure out where and how you're going to spend your eternity, Neal, then make the choice to stay. You want to finish up what you started - with Peter, with Mozzie, and _Sara_ and the rest, well, that's going to require a different choice. All you have to do is pick one."

"Live or die?"

"That's what it boils down to. You know, for a man with a checkered past that rivals my own, you certainly have a lot of people worried about your welfare."

"I know," Neal said. "I've been lucky."

"Lucky? You think it's luck? Chance? They don't care about you because somebody rolled the dice and a certain number came up. That's not how it works. They _decided_ to care about you. Just like you decided to care about them."

"They expect so much from me. I don't want to disappoint them."

"You just spent three months fighting the monster. And you won! You beat it! Sent it running. Of course they expect a lot from you. You spent a lifetime cheating, stealing and forging. Now you catch people like that and put them away for the FBI. Of course they have big expectations of you! The man who chased you down and delivered you to justice now calls you friend. And means it! He'd give up his badge for you, Neal. Heck, he'd lay down his _life_ for you. High expectations… Y' think?"

Hale moved closer to whisper in Neal's ear.

"You know…there's a beautiful woman crying her eyes out right now, heartbroken, curled up on the floor in a hospital bathroom, wishing she could tell you how she feels, terrified that it's already too late…"

Warmth – like life – flooded through Neal again. Not shame this time. Something else. _Longing_. The room seemed just a little less stark white, like a soft blush to a pale cold cheek.

"Neal, old friend, I've miss you. We've had some good times. No, great times. Epic. But I don't want you here. No offense. I don't want to see your face again for a long, long time."

Neal nodded. He noticed that the Fedora on the floor was strangely closer to his foot now.

"So what do you think, Neal? You ready to get out of here, go back home? Or should I order up some Thai food or a pizza or something?"

"No, I think I'm ready to…"

Hale was gone.

The Fedora, previously on the floor, was now in Neal's hands. Neal gave the handsome hat a long look, smiled his classic charming smile, then moved to put it on his head. But before the Fedora could touch his crown…

"CLEAR!"

~WC~

_One of these days letters are gonna fall  
>From the sky telling us all to go free<br>But until that day I'll find a way  
>To let everybody know that you're coming back<br>You're coming back for me_

_'Cause even though you left me here  
>I have nothing left to fear<br>These are only walls that hold me here  
>Hold me here, hold me here, hold me here<br>Only walls that hold me here__  
><em> 

They were gathered again, Peter Burke and his crew – minus Mozzie – all of them filling a small waiting area of New York Presbyterian. All were consumed with the fight again, all battling with feelings of sorrow, hope, fear and concern on behalf of Neal Caffrey, who lay sprawled on an operating table, possibly dying from a gunshot wound.

_No_, Peter told himself_. Not_ _dying. Holding on. Fighting. But not dying. Not yet. Please, God…not yet._

Peter rubbed his chin, feeling prickly stubble, evidence of too many hours gone by without shaving. His suit was rumpled, and he was grateful that his beautiful, loving wife had the forethought to bring a clean shirt for him. His mouth tasted sour from a mixture of bad waiting room coffee and stomach acid from going too long without a meal.

No matter what his immediate needs may be Peter was determined to remain fixed to the spot where he stood until someone came to give him substantive information regarding Neal. He'd lost so much blood, had taken such a harsh beating…had gone through so much. Would he live or would he die?

Neal alive would bring tremendous relief. Peter would hug his wife, take her to dinner, then home, and finally rest well knowing that order was in due time being restored.

Neal dead, however, would demand clear, unemotional, focused thinking. Arrangements would need to be made. A mountain of paperwork would have to be generated to satisfy the inquiries of both the bureau and NYPD. Unanswered questions would need to be thoroughly investigated. And Peter had already decided that if a funeral were necessary, he was more than willing to dip into some of his own savings to make sure Neal would be sent off well.

In both of these scenarios, Peter knew exactly what he needed to do. But not knowing Neal's fate was making Peter's head ache, driving him quickly to a place of despair.

He looked around the too-small room populated with his and Neal's friends. It struck him as quite bizarre in that moment that this former felon, this conman/forger he had spent years of his life chasing down, would actually come to share the same circle of friends as he! When did his friends become Neal's friends? Who would have predicted it? Indeed, he would have laughed if someone had suggested that he and his wife would share their dinner, their couch, their energies – their lives! - with an ex-con. Peter often ruminated on the peculiar nature of their friendship. There were family members, people Peter had known since grade school, the academy, and college, that were not as close as Neal had become to him. June was right. Neal was family. And he didn't know whether he should kick or commend himself for allowing such a thing to happen.

He spied Elizabeth, who sat holding Sara's left hand while June held the right. These three women had become as close as sisters through Neal's ordeal. While quite formidable in their own rights, together they were a force as mighty as nature – strength, wisdom, beauty, courage; stubborn as the wind, strong as steel, untamable as the sea. Peter chided himself for his momentary lapse into poeticism, and allowed himself a quickly crooked smile for them. He felt a tinge of jealousy, as men might do when observing the peerless, easy bond between women. But he also felt deep gratitude for his fallen partner. Elizabeth may never have met June and Sara had it not been for Neal.

Jones was pacing, his jacket and tie long ago removed and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Peter felt the urge to grin again. Never would someone like Jones have dared to wear a pale mauve linen shirt, or pinstripes, or pastel ties, not without Caffrey's influence. The FBI was Jones' life, Peter always knew. But because of Caffrey's sway, it appeared Jones was actually beginning to enjoy his life. And he had become a better investigator for it. Gone was the stiff and stoic naval officer; Jones had loosened up and revealed his affable, personable side in addition to beings a most valued officer. Because of Neal.

Diana, still dressed in her bulky borrowed S.W.A.T. jumpsuit, sat staring unblinkingly at a pale green wall. Peter knew she was undoubtedly replaying over and over again in her head the moment she ended Linus Hauser's life. She would be fighting against feelings of regret and satisfaction until she found herself at peace with her actions. But she had earlier intimated to Peter that she had been shocked and overwhelmed by her own internal fury. She hadn't felt such vehemence, such a passion to kill, since long ago when her bodyguard had died protecting her life. It frightened her, made her almost dizzy to experience the shock of such strong emotions for someone, anyone other than those she had carefully chosen to be closest to her. She'd asked Peter if he had ever felt driven more by wrath than justice. He promised her they would have that conversation another time, when emotions weren't running so high. He'd sworn he'd seen Diana tear up. Over Neal.

Kristin and Daniel sat on a small mock leather couch in a corner, mother comforting her son. Peter kept one eye on them, looking for signs of trauma acted out in stages. He would have to bring both of them in to make statements eventually, but he knew they'd want to remain close – be part of this family – until they knew Neal's status. They boy had found someone he could trust in Caffrey, a rarity among those his age in these uncertain times. Kristin had found, hopefully, a father figure who brought the qualities of patience, compassion and strength to her son's attention. Neal was a man – once considered a bad man – who had turned from a life of crime to a life of caring. This was the kind of man she wanted her own son to become (minus the stint in prison), she had told Peter. She had also commented, with great relief and a sense of hope that she and her son could finally live without fear for the first time ever. They could go wherever and do whatever they choose. They were free now. Because of Neal.

This epiphany of Neal's direct influence and effect on everyone in his life was staggering to Peter. He reflected on the ways Neal had changed his own life – deepened his convictions, quickened his investigative senses, gave him a healthy competitive edge – and felt a bit of dizziness rising up to overcome him. His inwardly focused attention was suddenly ripped away by the sound of someone entering the room.

All looked up as the door opened. Not the doctor, as Peter had hoped and expected, but rather, Reese Hughes walked in. He looked as if he was prepared to receive bad news.

"Anything?" Hughes asked Peter. Burke shook his head, and silence returned to the room for a discomforting beat.

"How's his friend?" Hughes ventured.

"Mozzie? He'll be okay," said Peter. "Concussion. They're keeping him overnight for observation."

Hughes shook his head and put a fatherly hand on Peter's shoulder.

"Caffrey's strong," was all he could say.

Peter nodded and returned to his brooding.

"Oh, before I forget…" Hughes reached into his inside a jacket pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled white window envelope. "This is for Neal."

"What is this…a check?"

"His first official paycheck as an FBI civilian Consultant. I've been holding onto it for a couple of months, hoping he'd resurface to claim it. It's still good. Of course, it occurred to me he may not have a legal bank account. Knowing Neal."

Peter nodded and smiled.

"I had this little surprise planned for the both of you," Hughes confessed in a whisper. "Nothing big. I was going to offer him the consultant position if he wanted it. I put the paper work through anyway, hoping he'd show up. That check's just for two weeks. I had to terminate his employment when I thought he was…"

"Thanks, Reese. He'll get a kick out of seeing this."

"Because it's an honest check for legit work, or because it's so small?"

"Because it says he's one of us. One of the good guys."

Hughes nodded, patted Peter's shoulder again, and took the last available seat near Kristen and Daniel.

Twenty or so minutes later, someone entered the room again. This time it was a doctor, weary and exhausted from deep, concentrated hours in surgery. He removed his surgical cap, simultaneously rubbing a hand over his bald pate.

"I'm looking for the family of Neal Caffrey."

Everyone who sat stood, and all turned to faced the doctor. So many different faces. So much concern. And fear. It was as if all of them were collectively holding their breath.

"We're his family," said June.

"All of you?" the doctor asked, quite skeptical at this collection of obviously unrelated folk.

"How's Neal?" Peter asked pointedly.

The doctor hesitated. This was not a normal situation. However, it was quite clear to him that no one was going to let him leave the room without some kind of report about his patient.

"I'm Doctor Gross. I performed the surgery on your…family member. Mr. Caffrey is stabilized. He came through the surgery fine. But he's not out of the woods yet. We're placing him in ICU, but I expect he'll be moved out of there by morning if all goes well."

The collective sigh of relief was audible, palpable. Gross felt a little of the tensions leave him as well.

"Thank you, Doctor," said Peter. "When can we see him?"

"Visits are restricted in ICU. Only one of you, and for only five minutes."

Peter turned to see who wanted or needed to go more than he. All looked at Peter and smiled in tacit agreement. Peter stepped forward, ready to go.

"We're moving him now," Gross said. "I'll send a nurse to get you when he's all set up."

Gross left, still caught off guard by the nature of this so-called family, but smiling to himself.

"I should be so lucky," he said under his breath.

~WC~

TWO DAYS LATER

His eyes refused to open at first. He felt consciousness stirring, percolating through him, but could not manage to complete the process of waking. He felt like he was floating, like being in the middle of the ocean and letting go, allowing the buoyancy of the salty waves to take him in any direction fate chose. It was warm and cold all at once. It was mystical yet mundane, mythical and factual, wonderful and regretful, straddling these two worlds at once.

Pain was being turned up like volume, growing louder and more intense. Memories were filtering into the last vestiges of his dreams, confusing him as to what was real and what was merely subconscious detritus. He felt restricted, unable to move freely, as if bound to the bed, which caused him to begin to panic.

His eyes popped open fearfully, and remnants of memories of his ordeal with Hauser shredded and fell away with all other thoughts. He saw white, all white, and light. (Had he still not yet moved on? Was Hale still in this place?) But there were tiny black holes in this white, and black lines creating many neat, perfect squares. His eyes focused and his brain once again began to properly process information. Tile. Ceiling. Room. Hospital.

_Alive_.

He heard sounds. Machines. Beeping. He looked a little to the side and saw monitors – one showing his heart rate, the other, he could only guess what it was for. _The Dead don't need monitoring,_ he realized, and took in a lung full of breath, nearly choking.

His throat hurt. His chest hurt. His head hurt. So much pain. He could only be alive. He looked down at himself, and saw that he lay under white sheets with NYPH printed clearly on the seams, and a pale blue blanket haphazardly covering only half of him. He moved his toes and felt them scratch against the tough sheets. At least he knew his spine was intact. He moved one hand. Success. He tried the other. Not so easy. Sitting up was impossible. He was suddenly quite exhausted and thought he should worry about moving later.

He slipped back under the velvety soft, gray mercy of sleep.

~WC~

His eyes opened immediately this time. Consciousness was abrupt and instant. So were his thoughts. It was dark, no doubt late. He heard the soft, aspirate sounds of breathing, and knew he was not alone in the room. He turned his head to the side to see two silhouettes sitting slumped and unconscious in hospital utility chairs.

Mozzie and Peter sat next to each other, close to the bed. Both were in deep sleep. Both had no doubt spent the night (or nights?) sitting vigil at his side. Both had undoubted been overcome by weariness. Neal managed to smile, and felt very secure and very calm at their presence. He closed his eyes and easily resumed the act of dreaming.

~WC~

DAY THREE

_One of these days the sky's gonna break  
>And everything will escape and I'll know<br>One of these days the mountains  
>Are gonna fall into the sea and they'll know<em>

_That you and I were made for this  
>I was made to taste your kiss<br>We were made to never fall away  
>Never fall away<em>

She entered quietly, as if afraid. Not of waking him, but of upsetting the delicate balance responsible for keeping him alive. The last thing she wanted to do was inadvertently trigger signals and alarms, to cause the nurses and doctors to come charging in, or to hear the sad pronouncement that Neal Caffrey had suddenly expired.

Before she could tell him…

_Or, because she had told him…_

She stood by the door, afraid to approach, staring at his still, prone form. So many monitors, so many bags of fluids hanging, gravity sending life-sustaining droplets rolling slowly though transparent plastic tubes. Thick gauze stained with crusted dried blood and Betadine were plastered to his shoulder and chest. How much damage had that one bullet done?

Sara took a tentative step toward his bed. Tears rolled unimpeded down her cheeks as she grew closer to him. Another step forward and she was able to reach for his cool hand which lay nearly palm up at his side. She saw dark lines under his fingernails and found it unusual – Neal would never allow dirty nails. Not dirt, she realized, but old blood.

She let her fingers gently intertwine with his. She squeezed, but felt nothing returned.

"Hey, Caffrey," Sara spoke, her voice hitching.

No sound but the rhythmic beeping of monitors. No response but stillness.

"There's something I want to tell you. I wanted to wait until you were fully conscious, but I don't know if I can say it with you looking at me. I don't know if I can look into your eyes, those big, blue, extraordinary eyes and tell you what's in my heart. I'm afraid. I was never afraid of anything before you, Neal, and I realized that it was because I never felt I had anything to lose. Until now. You probably know what I'm going to say. I just wanted to tell you that I…that I…I…"

"Excuse me."

Sara jumped, startled by the sudden intrusion of the floor nurse. Sara held tight to Neal's hand, not ready to release him.

"Visiting hours are over," the floor nurse said and backed out of the room respectfully.

Sara breathed deeply, disappointed, but equally relieved. Before she could pull her hand away from his, she could have sworn she felt a minute squeeze. An unrestrained gasp slipped from her lips.

She quickly reached for a practical explanation: it was a reflex; an involuntary muscle spasm.

But before she could pull her hand from his, Neal's eyes opened to thin slits, his blue orbs glassy, the whites of his eyes quite red. The corner of his mouth twisted up into a weak half-smile. Oh, that Caffrey smirk, she thought; even in his injured, deprived state, he could still cause a flutter deep inside her. Sara blinked back tears and smiled widely as Neal squeezed her hand again and whispered weakly,

"Me…too, Sara."

DAY FIVE

When Peter arrived New York Presbyterian, he stopped by the reception desk, as was becoming his habit, to greet and thank the Nurses, and show his badge. He had returned to a full day of work two days ago, and was so inundated with paperwork that it made it impossible to get to the hospital before visiting hours ended. Only his badge and his genuine smile convinced the Nurses to let him break the rules to sit by Caffrey's bedside for an hour or two.

He expected they would wave him right through, as they had the night before, and he'd continue down the hall to Neal's room. Tonight, however, the young Nurse at the desk asked him to wait while she paged her supervisor.

Peter's stomach churned from nervousness. Had Neal taken a sudden turn for the worse? He was starting to do so well! Had he suffered some horrible complication or some setback? Had there been an adverse reaction to medication? Why hadn't they called him? What was wrong with Neal?

"Agent Burke."

Peter turned to face the plump, strawberry blond nurse who insisted on being called Audrey and never "ma'am." She indicated with a finger wiggle that Peter should follow her and they slowly walked towards Neal's room together.

"What's wrong with Neal?"

Audrey placed a comforting hand on Peter's arm. "He's improving, but we're having a slight problem with him."

Peter took a deep breath, ready to process the information, hoping to keep emotion out of the way.

"He's refusing to use the PCA pump. He's white-knuckling it through his pain. And I mean it's some serious pain. All he has to do is push a button and a specific, controlled dosage is administered…"

"Why won't he…" Peter began, until the truth dawn on him.

Audrey said what he could not. "It's morphine."

"It's _morphine," _Peter repeated. "Poor kid. He's terrified of triggering a relapse."

"I tried to explain it to Neal. Our pain management team is well aware of his recent history with opiate abuse; they've been consulting daily on his situation. We know what we're doing. We work with patients like him every day, some still drug-seeking. It's within Neal's rights as a patient to refuse medication, but he can't just lay there in agony day after day. Can you talk to him? Tell him that the staff will be with him every step of the way to make sure he's safe."

Peter smiled reassuringly.

"I'll talk to him. We'll work it out."

"We'd all appreciate that, Agent Burke. And one more thing. Would you also talk to Neal about his flirting with my nurses? They're always looking for excuses to hang out in his room, instead of doing what they're supposed to be doing. 'Course, I'm the first to admit, I'm just as bad as they are," she giggled quite coquettishly, "but hey, I'm the boss."

Peter laughed now. How does Neal do this to people? Win them over? Addict them to him? Was he faking it or does it just come with being Neal, he wondered?

They stopped at Neal's door, which was slightly ajar. Peter could hear a television playing softly in the background, one of those singing competition shows that had become quite popular. If Neal was watching television, he thought, the poor guy must be bored completely out of his mind.

"You take care of your nurses," Peter said sweetly, "I'll take care of Neal."

Peter pushed the door open. Before he could enter, Audrey poked her head inside and waved at the handsome, slightly disheveled and somewhat broken man sitting in the bed.

"Hi, Neal," she said with that familiar feminine sing-song voice that overtly stated an intent to flirt.

"Hey, Audrey," Neal said, voice weak and somewhat gravelly.

It was more than obvious to Peter that Neal was in pain. He tried to brighten his countenance, but the paleness of his skin and the oily sheen of sweat was a dead giveaway.

"Did you get my gift?" Neal asked Audrey.

"I sure did! Bless your heart!" she said, and blew him a kiss before leaving.

Peter shook his head incredulously.

"What?" Neal asked.

"How do you do it? You're lying in a hospital bed, unkempt and lousy with tubes and drips and needles and…stuff…and yet you still get the girls."

"What can I say, it's a gift. Do I really look unkempt?"

Peter laughed and shook his head as Neal ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, slicking it back off his forehead.

"Speaking of which, what did you give Nurse Audrey? And is it legal?"

"She happens to like a certain brand of German dark chocolate, not available in the U.S. I made a phone call and had a friend who owed me a favor overnight her half a dozen bars for taking such excellent care of me. And, by the way, I'm fine, thank you for asking."

"You look pale."

"I haven't seen the sun in a few days, and I'm a white boy. What do you expect?"

Peter pulled a chair close to Neal's bedside and sat.

"Uh-oh," said Neal. "What did I do now?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You're giving me the evil eye," said Neal.

"It's not the evil eye."

"Then it's the stern, fatherly, you're-screwing-up-again eye. What did I do now?"

"Painkillers are for your benefit."

"Aw, Peter, please..."

"Listen to me. You're not going to relapse. You're not going to trip on this, and the staff won't let you become addicted. It's to help you manage your pain…"

"That's how I became an addict, Peter, managing my pain. I remained an addict to avoid pain."

"This is a controlled dosage. They know what they're doing. They know all about your situation."

"I can handle the pain, okay, Peter?"

"Sure, that' why you're sitting here, sweating and shaking like a leaf."

Neal tried to sit upright. "Trust me, Peter! I can…ACH! Ahhh…"

Neal doubled over as spasms raged through him like a runaway chainsaw.

Peter reached for the PCA.

"No, Peter…"

Peter's thumb was poised over the button. He wanted to push it. He wanted to ease Neal's pain. But he couldn't force it on him. Even if it was for his own good, he could not force his friend to do something he did not want to do. He let go of the control, and placed it on the bed within Neal's reach.

The pain began to subside enough to allow Neal to lie back. His eyes were red and watering, his face, was pinched, paler than before. Peter helped his weakened friend lie back upon the pillows.

"I'll get the nurse," Peter said softly.

"No…I'm okay…" Neal lied. "I'll be okay. Just don't say 'I told you so.'"

"I don't think I have to."

Neal stared at the television screen, though the singer screaming her way through the lyric didn't appear to be the true focus of his thoughts.

"Peter, I don't know how to explain it…but right now, the pain is the only thing that lets me know I'm alive…and sober...and connected. When I was…under the influence…high…nothing mattered. Not food, not pain, not even fear. I didn't care about anything. _Or anyone_. I never want to be that out if it again. If it means putting up with this…" Neal said, touching his heavily bandaged and shoulder and arm in a navy blue sling, swallowing heavily as another spasm was ratcheting up, "then so be it."

"Fine. You want to punish yourself, go ahead. You want to beat yourself up, be my guest."

"Peter…"

"I'm just worried about you. Look…do yourself a favor. Talk to Dr. Leslie."

"I don't need to talk to Dr. Leslie."

"Yes, you do. You talk to her, or I'll talk to her."

"I'll call her in the morning," Neal promised.

Peter reached out to gently pat Neal's uninjured shoulder. "You've been through a lot…"

"And I've put you through hell. I'm sorry…"

"Yeah, well…"

Neal regarded him with narrowed eyes, but also a bit of a smile.

"Do you remember the night you met me at Cafe Insomnia, Peter?"

"I do."

"Thank you. Thank you for saving me."

Peter gave Neal's good shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'll stop by and see you tomorrow night."

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere."

Peter stood by the door for a moment, reluctant to leave, but lacking a good reason to remain. He spared Neal one final look over his shoulder before opening the door, and noticed his friend flat back against the pillows, eyes tight, lips tight, fighting to cope with the pain. He knew it was more than Neal could endure. He held his breath as Neal did, waiting for the worst of it to pass.

He saw Neal reach for the PCA, grip it tightly, yet his thumb never pressed the button.

_Come on, Neal. You'll be fine. _

The pain relented just enough, maintaining its harsh cold grip but allowing Neal to relax enough to open his hand and let the PCA fall from it.

Peter subtly shook his head and walked out.

~WC~

DAY TEN

_One day soon I'll hold you like the sun holds the moon  
>And we will hear those planes overhead<br>And we won't have to be scared_

_You're coming back for me  
>You're coming back for me<br>You're coming back for me_

He was grateful to be wearing anything other than a faded hospital gown. He was also grateful to finally be leaving. The aroma of antiseptic solution, hospital food and other sundry odors had driven Neal to spending his waking hours formalizing various plans of escape. But when the doctor came to visit on the ninth day of his stay bearing the happy news, Neal could hardly contain himself. Despite the physical disadvantage his sling created, he'd rose early, ate his last prefab breakfast with lukewarm instant coffee, washed up, shaved and slick-combed his lengthening hair into something more…Caffrey. He'd dressed in a forest green shirt and dark slacks (with the assistance of Stephanie, a lovely Nurse's aide with violet eyes and a perpetual grin), dark loafers sans socks. He was grateful to June for having brought these things for him when she visited the night before.

He tired quickly, realizing that a release from New York Presbyterian did not mean a reprieve from pain or exhaustion. The wound still throbbed as if begging to never be forgotten, and ten days in bed – two of which were in ICU - was just as enervating as his injury. Precisely as he had settled himself comfortably on the side of the bed, Stephanie had returned, but this time bearing more than a smile. She pushed the wheel chair into the room and locked the wheels for Neal's safety.

"Your chariot awaits!" she said in a chipper style that divulged her middle American upbringing.

Neal didn't need a second invitation. He was in the mock leather seat immediately.

A taxi waited by the entrance. Neal felt a tinge of disappointment…until Sara climbed out of the back seat. Her red dress was striking. He smile was knockout.

"Need a lift?"

~WC~

HOME

"Three months in a sling?" Mozzie asked as he poured himself glass of wine. "Torture! A cold-hearted conspiracy undoubtedly concocted by the medical depression to keep you enslaved and dependent upon their diabolical system."

"You mean medical _profession,_ Sara corrected him as she searched the cabinets for plates. "You said medical depression."

"I meant it. Wait till Peter sees Neal's medical bills. Did you know that a whopping sixty-two percent of all bankruptcies filed in the United States are because of exorbitant medical bills?"

He took a quick sniff and taste of the wine, savoring it.

"Hm…where have you been hiding this Meritage, Neal?"

Neal was lost in thought, gazing at the awe-inspiring view of Manhattan at sunset, the way the light shifted and began to softly fade in his room at June's. He was taking it all in, grieving for all he had missed, even as he celebrated his return home.

_Home._

His room was clean and dusted; his few belongings had been returned from Thursday, along with his bed which had been twice moved without a chip or a nick to the massive hand-carved frame. It had been made perfectly by Sara and sat invitingly in its old spot.

He shifted his position slightly as ever-present, nagging pain sought to reclaim his full attention. He made a mental note to take a few ibuprofen tablets at dinner to take some of the edge off. That was the strongest painkiller he would allow himself.

Sara was setting the table for four while Mozzie's job was to keep a constant eye on the boiling pasta and roasted garlic sauce slow-simmering on the old fashioned stove, sending a superb aroma through the entire upper level. Neal had offered to help, to do his part to make dinner come together, but Sara had merely shooed him away, begging him to rest, to be still.

Mozzie seemed none the worst for his injury, though Neal knew from having had a concussion himself a few years ago that the headaches could tend to stick around a while. If Mozzie was feeling any pain, however, he was doing an excellent job of concealing the truth tonight.

Neal smiled. All suddenly began to seem right with his world again. The sling would be gone eventually. Hopefully the bullet wound (as well as the track marks that indicted him) would also diminish with time. These things that marked him would one day fade away like old memories, lost until some scent, or song, or random thought brought them back to mind perforce. The distance of years would someday make these remembrances harmless. But for now, at least for the interim, the horror of his ordeal still haunted his dreams. His only consolation was in realizing, when waking, sweat-soaked and gasping, that the bed, this room, these friends, were his true reality.

"Dinner is almost ready, mon frère."

Neal didn't respond, nor did he move.

"Neal! you've been standing there, doing the silent routine for far too long. If you don't move or say something soon…"

"Sorry," Neal said, turning to Mozzie and Sara, "I'm back."

"Yes, you are…" Sara said, taking few short steps toward Neal. She hesitated embracing him, afraid his wound may still be tender. Instead, she planted a chaste kiss upon his cheek, and beamed when she noticed the color rising in his face.

"I hope you're hungry," she said. Chastity took a distinct nose dive.

"Ravenous," Neal said. "You don't get pasta like this in the hospital."

"It's al dente, just like you like it."

"And the sauce?"

"A little spicy…"

"Okay, you two," chided Mozzie, "enough with the gastronomic _double entendre_. Dinner is served."

"Not without me!"

June entered carrying a tall chocolate fondant draped cake. Neal automatically moved to assist her, but was gently nudged aside by Mozzie."

"I'll take the cake," said Mozzie as he intercepted the massive confection.

"That you do," said June. She placed her arms with exaggerated care around Neal. "Ooh…It's so good to have you home."

"It's good to be home, June. It's good to be home."

They dined, and laughed and shared stories. They remembered the ordeal, bore moments of awkward silence, and laughed out loud when appropriate. And when the last drop of wine had been poured, and the cake had been cut and partially devoured, June stood and raised her glass.

"To family. May we be ever closer, and may we never be farther apart."

"Here, here," Neal said, and sipped sparkling water. "I was expecting Peter and El to join us."

June shook her head. "I'm sorry, I neglected to tell you. Peter called; he said he got caught up in a case, and that he'd see you tomorrow. Truth be told, I'm quite happy to have you and Mozzie and Sara all to myself."

TWO WEEKS LATER

Neal was nervous as he dressed. He was not satisfied with his choice of tie, or shirt color, or shoes. Nothing seemed suitable to the occasion. He wanted his return to the bureau to be a singular experience.

The cab ride seemed interminable. He held his breath as he rode up the elevator. The sound of the "ding" reverberated in his bones. He stepped onto the 21st floor and stood there for a moment. He readjusted his sling, and felt an unsettling need to look at his ankle. It wasn't the first time he imagined he was still tethered to his old tracking anklet. He fought the urge to look, knowing the truth, and took a step toward the double doors that lead to FBI Headquarters.

No one noticed immediately. There was hardly anyone on duty. Jones was not at his desk. Neither was Diana. Must be in the field, he assumed, and looked up toward Peter's office.

Empty as well. He felt somewhat let down. He at least expected his friends to be there and welcome him back.

Reese Hughes stepped from his office onto the Mezzanine. He looked Neal in the eye, unsmilingly, and gave Neal the finger point.

Neal sighed – at least some things had not changed – and made his way up the steps to the conference room.

He had found them. All of them. Peter. Jones and Diana. Elizabeth. Sara. Every agent that had ever been peripherally involved in any case with Neal and Peter had crammed into the conference room. There was a sheet cake to welcome him back, along with several bottles of chilled sparkling cider, plastic cups and an envelope with Neal's name written on it in fancy script.

Peter gave Neal a mock slap on the back, and urged him to the center of the room.

"I don't…I don't know what to say…"

"Say something quick," Diana quipped. "That cake looks good."

Hughes entered, reaching for the envelope on the conference table. "I'll say something, unless anyone objects."

No one did.

"Caffrey, next time you want an extended vacation, just ask."

All laughed politely.

They celebrated briefly and returned to work, leaving Neal, Hughes and Peter to sit at the conference table and hash out the details of Neal's legitimate employment.

"Basically," Hughes said, in summation, "I want you and Peter to continue doing the commendable work you've always done. Catching bad guys. Other than the anklet and the fact that you'll be earning a paycheck, nothing changes. Well, maybe one other thing."

"What?" Neal asked, eyes widening with curiosity.

"Peter," said Hughes, signaling Peter to continue for him.

"I know you've considered applying as an agent, enrolling at Quantico…I'm afraid that's not going to happen. Hughes and I both went to bat for you, but there's a long-standing policy…no convicted felons."

Neal shook his head. As sad and angry as it made him, he knew his chances of becoming a full fledge FBI agent were always slim at best.

"I understand," he said, hoping to keep the tell-tale sound of disappointment out of his voice.

"Open the envelope," Hughes said.

Neal had practically forgotten. The envelope with the fancy script. He's slipped it in a pocket to open later. He removed it. Peter kindly ripped the envelope and allowed Neal to pull the letter from it. He flattened it one-handedly on the table to read. It was on official bureau stationery. Neal read until his eyes found the noteworthy paragraph that clarified the purpose of the letter.

"Are you serious? You want me to…"

"You're okay with, aren't you, Caffrey?" asked Hughes.

Neal could barely contain himself. The Bureau in Washington, D.C. had offered him, in addition to his established duties, the opportunity to travel a few times a year – all expenses paid – to train new agents in weekend-long seminars in the art of catching the white collar criminal. His first trip was in three weeks in sunny Los Angeles.

"I don't…I don't know what to say."

"Just promise us," said Peter, "that you'll continue with your recovery. Go to meetings. Keep seeing Dr. Leslie. Do the physical therapy for the arm. Keep your nose clean. And don't let Mozzie rope you into one those something-for-nothing schemes…"

"Got it. Promise."

"Fine," said Hughes as he stood and returned to his office.

When they were alone, Neal reread the letter, shaking his head. "How much of this are you responsible for?" Neal asked.

Peter just smiled. "There's a stack of files on your desk. Mortgage fraud cases, mostly."

"You know how much I love a good case of mortgage fraud."

~WC~

THREE WEEKS LATER

He was all packed and prepared for his flight. He still had six hours to kill before heading for LaGuardia, so he walked, soaking up the day, basking in the joy of being in the city he so loved. He arrived the church basement in time to sip coffee before the meeting began. He watched the time carefully, hoping that…

"Neal!"

Neal looked up and smiled as Daniel Hauser entered. His hair was jet black and bone straight now, and he carried a brand new skate board.

"How's the arm?"

"Feeling stronger every day," said Neal.

They sat together, listening through the meeting until the hour was nearly done.

Neal nervously stood. The room was quiet save for the sounds of the street filtering in through the barely opened window.

The first time he shared, it took several moments for him to find his voice. It was perhaps the hardest thing he ever had to do. Speaking, talking about himself, sharing with others had never caused him such consternation as this. But it was getting easier. Every day, life after Linus Hauser was getting just a little bit easier.

"My name is Neal," he said, addressing the room. "And I'm an addict. I've been sober for fifty-seven days. And every one of those days, it's been a blessing. My drug of choice…I'm sorry, I never felt comfortable saying heroin was my drug of choice because I never chose to do heroin. I never chose to take that first shot. Or the one after that…or the one after that. But eventually… Those last two months, every shot was all me.

"I took a lot of things for granted before my ordeal. Most especially my friends. They're my family, the family I never had, and always wanted. They sacrificed a lot for me. The best way I can pay them back is to remain sober. It's hard work, getting comfortable not using. Not that I'm tempted. But I'm always worried something's going to happen to trigger a relapse. Living in fear is no way to live. So I choose to take it one day at a time. One day at a time. I'm grateful for every day I wake up in control of my faculties, and not beholden to a needle. I'm grateful for physical pain. I know that sounds crazy. I'm thankful for my job, and second chances. And for a woman who knows who and what I am, and yet remains… Thanks for listening. I guess…I guess that's all."

Neal Caffrey sat back, wiped the stray, rebellious tear threatening to fall from his eye, and breathed.

The End.

_I hope you enjoyed taking this ride. If you did, in the least bit, I would be grateful to hear from you. Please review, respond, react. Thank you so much for your time and attention. And I'm sure glad I didn't include Kramer in this story as I earlier planned to, because he turned out to be evil! LOL. Merci._


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